


The Volunteer

by esotericakit



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/F, F/M, also it's gonna be angst city so, enjoy, i hope it makes sense in execution, it was a wild idea i just ran with it, this is kind of an attempt at doing ls:tua but with kit snicket
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 24,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27946655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esotericakit/pseuds/esotericakit
Summary: SEEKING: Information, documents and artefacts pertaining to a K. Snicket, resident of The City over a decade ago and now deceased, as a matter of great importance. Financial compensation may be offered in exchange for relevant items. Please contact me at [REDACTED] or send findings to [REDACTED]. Please help, all information is much-needed and valued. Thank you.
Relationships: Beatrice Baudelaire & Kit Snicket, Beatrice Baudelaire/Bertrand Baudelaire, Beatrice Baudelaire/Lemony Snicket, Bertrand Baudelaire & Kit Snicket, Count Olaf/Kit Snicket, Dewey Denouement/Kit Snicket, Jacques Snicket & Kit Snicket & Lemony Snicket
Comments: 31
Kudos: 18





	1. Letter from Christopher Twig of Mulctuary Money Management

**Author's Note:**

> See end for notes.

Dear Inquirer, 

Good morning, afternoon or evening to you. I was perusing the advertisement section of The Daily Punctilio this morning. This is one of my favourite pastimes, I must admit, people do advertise such strange and unusual things. Today, my most noteworthy finds were of a canary that can whistle the entire works of Lucio Battisti, a typewriter that can only type uncouth and explicit words, and a sign for a lumbermill made entirely out of chewing gum, although why anyone would want to buy that particular item is beyond me. As I was searching, one advertisement did jump out at me. And as you might imagine, this advertisement was yours. 

To give you further context, my name is Christopher Twig and I am the new Vice President in Charge of Orphan Affairs at Mulctuary Money Management. I was promoted only last week. The position has been unfilled for over a decade now, after the last appointed employee, Arthur Poe, mysteriously vanished, coincidentally on the same day on which a large hotel in one corner of the city went up in flames. To this day, nobody is quite sure what became of the man, and we have all waited in anticipation for his return, hence the position and his quite splendid office remaining vacant. However, the decision was made that waiting for Mr. Poe a moment longer would truly begin to waste time, and that the bank must continue their work in Orphan Affairs, and I was promoted. 

The office was in quite a state of disarray when I moved my pen caddy and ornamental flower pot in here, and it appears that Mr. Poe was quite perturbed during his final moments in his office. Many cabinets had been turned over, their contents spilled over the floor, documents had been filed incorrectly, and it’s taken my first week to put it back in order. Several folders containing highly sensitive and possibly incriminating information surrounding several sets of orphans now have large gaps in them. 

The reason why your advertisement caught my eye was because of the name mentioned in it. As I tried to piece these files back together, I kept coming across certain esoteric documents, thick sealed envelopes that seem to contain thin books, and equally mysterious scribbled pieces of paper all pertaining to one person who I am not familiar with; a K. Snicket.

This name had initially rung a faint bell, and I was reminded by my snowboarding partner Martin, who works at The Daily Punctilio, that a man by the name of Lemony Snicket was employed there as a theatrical critic for a while, before he was fired and died sometime after. I wondered if this K. Snicket, as described on these documents and in your advertisement, was any relation, but it hardly seems to matter now, seeing as both individuals are either dead, or shrouded in mystery. 

However, I have no need for these files pertaining to K. Snicket, as they have nothing to do with the Baudelaires, the Quagmires, the Spats, or any of the other orphan-related files that I have tried to collect. Therefore, I have a clear mind and conscience to send these quite sensitive and personal files to the composer of an anonymous advertisement in an often unreliable newspaper. 

I must warn you, however, that I have read these files, at least what I am able to access without opening the sealed envelopes, and if you are looking for a detailed and overreaching account of this individual’s trials and triumphs throughout their life, you will be sorely disappointed. From what I can gather, these documents, letters, and written accounts only tell part of the tale of K. Snicket. Almost as if whoever brought them to Mr. Poe’s office and shuffled them in with the rest of these papers were writing a novel, and had neglected to bring all but the first chapter, leaving the rest either hidden in a drawer somewhere, or scattered to the winds. 

Regardless, I have included my findings in this envelope, in the hopes that they will be of use to you. Remember, you can always rely on Mulctuary Money Management, but please do refrain from contacting me about these particular files, as I am a very busy banker and it is unlikely that I will have time to spend on the matter further. 

Regards,  
Christopher Twig  
Vice President in Charge of Orphan Affairs  
Mulctuary Money Management 


	2. Package 1 - Commonplace Book Entry: Briny Beach

There’s a peace in being at the beach, particularly on an overcast day, when very little sunlight fights its way through the clouds, and the breeze that drifts over the water has a chill in it. I had felt this peace the moment I looked outside my window at the grey sky that greeted me this morning and knew that I would, eventually, find myself traversing the shores of Briny Beach for a few hours today. The water matched the sky, albeit a few shades darker, and shimmered as the light wind drifted over it, very little visible under the surface. 

I ran my fingers over the smooth, flat stone in my hand, squinting out onto the horizon. My talents were varied, some being stronger than others, but skipping stones had never been one of them. But this was the perfect weather, the sea was perfectly still, and I reached my hand back behind me, before releasing it, and sending the stone into the air. It flew like a frisbee a few feet, before decidedly landing in the water with a depressing  _ plop _ . Sighing, I straightened myself up, frowning at the ripples where it had landed, my mind already working on the physics of how it had gotten there. 

“That was terrible.” A voice called from behind me, and I huffed, turning to where Bertrand was staring up at me from his lounged position on the blanket we had laid down, a judgmental look gracing his face. 

“If you don’t mind, I’m trying to focus.” I retorted, leaning down to pick up another stone and turning back to the water. 

I could hear him laugh and I rolled my eyes, bringing my arm back again. This time, I tilted my body back slightly, hoping that this change in angle would amount to some difference. The stone flew through the air, and…  _ plop _ . 

“It’s never going to skip if you throw it like that. Your wrist is too limp, that’s why you’re not getting a solid skip.” I looked to see Bertrand move down to lounge on his elbows, his legs stretched out in front of him, staring at me with a smug look on his face. 

Pursing my lips, I brushed my hands off on my trousers. “Y’know, when I invited you out for an afternoon picnic on the beach, I didn’t expect you to spend the whole time criticising me.” I muttered, walking back to the blanket and plopping myself down next to him, reaching for a grape from the picnic basket I had packed, and tossing it in my mouth. 

He gave me a quizzical look. “Then you really don’t know me at all.” He replied, and I gave him a grin. 

“So my wrist is too limp?” 

He nodded. “Yes. Look.” He pushed himself up onto his feet, and I winced as the commotion swept a significant amount of sand onto the blanket, reaching a hand out to brush it off before it could settle too much. It took him a few moments to find a stone that he deemed suitable for throwing, tossing aside several contenders that I would have used, before he scooped one up, and I eyed it enviously. Somehow, he had managed to find the most perfectly circular and smooth grey stone, one that I knew instantly would skip on the water with a precision unmatched. 

He took a few steps towards the shore, bringing his arm back, and I tried my best to examine his wrist from this angle. In an instant, his body whipped around, and the stone went sailing off onto the water, skipping once, twice… six times, before sinking under the surface. 

My mouth had fallen open as I watched, but I composed myself with an indifferent countenance by the time he turned back to me, blinking up at him with an unimpressed smile. “I could probably build a machine that could get seven skips. Plus, I’m better than you at darts.” I retorted, and Bertrand leaned down to pick up a few small stones and playfully chuck them at me, my arm blocking my face from the onslaught. 

“Your hubris knows no bounds.” He chided teasingly, coming back to the blanket and settling next to me, and we both stared out into the horizon for a moment. In an instant, I remembered something that my mother had said to me and Jacques, when she had sent the two of us to the beach or the park or some other place of leisure together; ‘there is no more wonderful feeling, than that of being in an exceptional place, with an exceptional person’. And, there were few people more exceptional than Bertrand. Between his unkempt brown hair, his constantly crooked glasses, the half-smirk that always played across his face the moment he found a way to beat me at either a board game or wit, he was the epitome of extraordinary, and I had loved him dearly since we had met as children. 

He broke the silence then. “So, where’s Jacques today?” 

“Driving lessons.” I replied. “Ike insisted. No more driving that taxi without knowing properly how to, he said.” 

Bertrand chucked beside me. “Then why aren’t you with him?” He asked. 

I scoffed, and I could feel my ears turn red. “I-... I’m not allowed back to that particular driving school.” I chose my words carefully, but it didn’t matter. 

“What?” Was the response, and I looked up, sighing. 

“Apparently, my driving was deemed recklessly perilous and a danger to the life of myself and anybody within a mile’s radius of the car.” I grit my teeth as I finished, completely expecting the colossal burst of laughter that followed. I looked over to Bertrand doubled over, and pushed his shoulder. “It is not funny!” I chided him. “This might mean that Jacques won’t let me drive the taxi.” 

Wheezing, Bertrand looked at me incredulously. “But that won’t stop you, right?”

My exasperated look melted into a smirk. “Of course not.” I replied, and he nodded, satisfied. 

“Good. And Lemony?” 

I took a deep breath, nodding. “He’s alright. He’s… he’s out doing research at the theatre for his new job at the Daily Punctilio.” 

“Oh. The theatre?”    
  
“Yes. With Beatrice.” 

I glanced over at Bertrand’s face, and I knew that the effort he was making to hide his dismay was tremendous. As it was, it seemed, with everyone who met her, Bertrand had been captured by Beatrice from the moment he first laid eyes on her. In many ways, I had noticed her responding, caught the flirty glances and well-timed comments shared between the two during evenings together. But, in recent weeks, she had taken a liking to Lemony, spending much more time with him than anyone else, and I had seen them, curled up on a sofa in the Snicket library, both of their noses buried in the same book. While it had been good to see Lemony grow closer to somebody who was not Jacques or I, this didn’t bode well for Bertrand. I knew him well enough, however, to know that his attitude towards either my brother or Beatrice would be completely unchanged, no matter his feelings about what could happen in the future. 

“And…” He turned to me, plastering a cheeky grin to his face. “Olaf? How is he feeling nowadays?” 

Instantly, my cheeks burned red-hot, and I averted my eyes from the teasing smile in front of me, to the water. “How would I know?” I replied tersely, irritation rising inside me. 

“Oh, come on, Kit.” He replied, a knowing tone to his voice. Yes, he knew very well what my feelings were towards Olaf, towards this whole subject, and that was the most irritating part of it. “You two are completely smitten with each other. You have been since he gave you that bouquet of weeds when we were children.” 

I clenched my jaw, shaking my head. “He’s nothing but an annoyance.” I retorted, but the corners of my mouth twitched. My relationship with Olaf ebbed and flowed, mostly depending on my own mood; Olaf tended to dote regardless of what I said or did. And I had said and done some odd things. But I couldn’t deny that there was a thrill to it all, and I couldn’t deny the way that my stomach fluttered when he smiled at me in a certain way. Not that I would ever admit it, though, not in a million years. 

Bertrand looked at me, his eyebrows raised, but he said nothing. Instead, he nodded once, before reaching down for a cheese, mayonnaise and celery sandwich and taking a bite. 

“This is disgusting.” He mumbled, a mouth full of food, staring down at the offensive sandwich and I shrugged. 

“You put me in charge of sandwiches. You know I’m not a cook.” 

He nodded. “I know this, and yet I constantly repeat my error of asking you to pack the basket.” He replied, and took another bite. He chewed, looking down at his lap, before swallowing (albeit with some effort) and looked up at me. “I’m going to the Mortmain Mountains tomorrow.”   


My eyebrows raised at that; it wasn’t like us to hide or omit pieces of information from each other, especially news of a trip. I assumed it was VFD business, and in that case, it was always prudent to ensure they didn’t need an additional volunteer. “I didn’t know. Anything I can help with?” I offered. 

Bertrand smiled, shaking his head. “No, thank you. It’s a complicated business and I’m afraid there’s not much else I can share about it.” 

I nodded, pursing my lips. “How long will you be gone for?” 

“A month, maybe longer.” 

A sigh escaped my lips. “That’s the third chess game in a row you’ll have missed. I’m counting these as wins for myself.” 

He laughed, picking up the hat that was sat next to him on the blanket, putting it over his face as he lay down on his back. “Don’t you dare, I’ll be back and we’ll have make-up games.” 

I grinned, and picked up my commonplace book to begin writing this. And I leave in this book, my new, empty commonplace book, as the waves lull gently on the shore and Bertrand snoozes beside me, a quote that I think off with surprising regularity; 

“The companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain.”

\- Mary Shelley,  _ Frankenstein _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!


	3. Package 1 - Handwritten Notes Between K. and J.

J-

I have taken a blank journal from your desk, as I misplaced my commonplace book when I took it to the beach.

Before you say it, I know that you told me so.

I’ll buy you a new journal when I get some money. As I don’t know when I’ll get any money, I don’t intend to buy you a new journal for a while.

\- K

* * *

K-

I told you so.

\- J


	4. Package 1 - A Singular Handwritten Note to K. from B.

K- 

You are my dearest friend, this much has never faltered. However, I am beginning to lose my patience. I understand that you intended to draw back during your interactions with O in order to gauge his interests, but I wasn’t aware that this extended to completely ignoring him. He mentioned that he threw an eraser at you and, while he shouldn’t have done that, you also didn’t even flinch. 

He’s positively desolate. Please put him out of his misery and speak to him again. 

\- B


	5. Package 1 - Commonplace Book Entry: The Snicket Box

The Snicket box at The City’s largest theatre is one of the best in the auditorium. Set to the right of the stage, with a fantastic view of the performers, and enough space to hold a modest party of friends alongside a table. On that table, one usually placed some sort of refreshment, such as kiwi punch, steaming hot chocolate, or bitter tea. The box has been in our family for generations, passed down and put in Jacques’ name when our parents perished, and attendance to the opening night of the opera was a time-honoured Snicket tradition. 

Today, however, only Lemony and I were sat in the box, warming ourselves with rich hot chocolate and watching the inaugural performance of La Traviata. By this point, we were used to the comings and goings of attending the opera, but this night was different; it was Beatrice’s first performance as a member of the opera company. This had brought much excitement in the Snicket household, with Lemony hanging a calendar on the refrigerator to count off the days. It had certainly been sweet to witness; his affinity for Beatrice had been kindled as a child and now, at the age of seventeen, it still burned as strong.

The opera was strong, despite a few technical blunders, and I found myself enjoying it so much, that it was almost a surprise when Beatrice glided onstage in a gauzy white gown adorned with hundreds of swan feathers. Both Lemony and I audibly gasped, and received puzzled glances from certain patrons in the orchestra seats, but we paid them no attention, totally transfixed on what could only be described as a celestial being on the stage below us. 

A familiar feeling crept into my stomach as she began to sing, the same feeling that I’d had when I first heard Beatrice sing, as when she held my hand to sprint across a set of train tracks, as when her nimble fingers braided my hair. It was a tightening, but not nauseating. It was longing, over anything else. She completely transfixed me, and always had. And, looking over at Lemony, I knew that he was transfixed as well. 

Her song continued, and I was able to tear my eyes away from her from time to time to glance at Lemony, as he watched her with what could only be described as… adoration. But not the adoration of a fan, or a friend. It was an adoration I knew too well, one that I had reserved for only one person, one that a different person seemed to have reserved solely for me. One reserved for the person who made your stomach tighten, and your head feel light, and your toes feel jumpy. 

Beatrice’s song finished, followed by a thunderous round of applause; it seemed as if everybody in the auditorium, Lemony and I included, were on our feet clapping. She didn’t move offstage, however, moving instead upstage, perching herself on a chair and playing a supporting role to those who had now taken over the scene, still as regal and poised as she had been center-stage. The theatrics continued between the other actors, but both sets of eyes in the Snicket box were still transfixed on the woman in the white feather dress. 

“Kit, I love her.” Lemony blurted out, his voice still at an appropriate whisper, and I inhaled sharply. In some ways, this was the most painful sentence he could have uttered. Beatrice had shown no reciprocation to how I felt, and I accepted that. Yet, until she was actually involved with somebody else, I couldn’t help but hold a torch of hope to the fact that she may, someday, feel the same way about me as I did about her, as improbable as it seemed. 

I racked my mind for something to say and I knew, that with a well-calculated and well-timed comment, I could derail this all for him, convince him that she could never reciprocate how he felt. Lemony was intelligent and well-spoken, perhaps, but he was susceptible to suggestion, and fragile. I had learned, in the years that we had been siblings, the ways to ensure that he would do my bidding. 

But, no matter how tempting, I couldn’t resort to that now. It was too cruel. 

I stuttered for a moment. “I-... That’s a surprise.” Is all I could manage, and I frowned at my own idiocy, turning to watch as he took in my words. 

He frowned, his eyes never leaving Beatrice. “Is that all you have to say?” He asked.

No, it wasn’t. I sighed, focusing my eyes back on Beatrice, who was posed in a bout of silent fake laughter, a prop champagne glass in her hand, her eyes sparkling, and I shook my head. 

“Lemony, what do you want me to say?” I responded. “You know that I love you. And, as for Beatrice, I’ve loved her, and…” I trailed off, trying to figure out how to phrase the next part. My eyes remained focused on Beatrice, bathed in the blinding theatre light. “And I’ve loved her.” I breathed. I sensed Lemony, for the first time, look away from Beatrice and to me, but I didn’t flinch. “I know how you feel.” 

A moment of silence passed. “I had no idea.” He said softly, and I shook my head. 

“It’s not important.” I replied, feeling a dagger in my stomach as I said it. “She cares for you, that much is evident. And you’d care for her much more than I ever could.” I turned my head to meet Lemony’s eyes with mine, forcing a smile for him. “I think it’s wonderful that you love her.” 

But Lemony didn’t appear consoled. If anything, he appeared more perturbed. “But… but what if she can’t love me? I sometimes feel that this will consume me. What if she wouldn’t feel the same?” 

I watched my brother’s eyes, and suddenly didn’t see the nearly-adult that I’d been sitting next to only five minutes ago. I suddenly saw a small child again. A small child, coming to my bedside and tugging me awake, to tell me he’d had another dream about our home going up in smoke, our parents perishing in the flames, as if he’d seen it happen himself. I could never be sure that he hadn’t. And, every night it happened, I’d reach my arms out, scoop him up onto the bed and hold him close to myself, rocking him until his tears dried and he fell asleep, and only then would I go to sleep myself. 

But Lemony was no longer a small child, and I doubted that it was possible, nor appropriate, for me to pull him into my arms in the middle of this crowded auditorium. So, instead, my forced smile melted into a smaller, more genuine one, and I reached a hand out to cover his. “Then she’s a fool.” I said simply, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. He responded with a smile of his own, and the two of us turned back to the stage. 

A few arias and fake sword fights passed, and my mind was fully enraptured in the performance. Beatrice sang a line here and there, but as she was a supporting role, her responsibilities were rather limited. Still, she was exceptional to watch, and it dawned on me that I would still be happy, were she to be in my life, without any romantic connection to myself. It would be difficult to grow used to, but as I imagined her in love with, getting married to, or having children with Lemony, while I was there to be a part of it, to stay her friend… I knew that I would still be happy. 

This thought was an immense comfort to me, enough that I felt comfortable to draw my hand away from Lemony’s, and use it instead to fiddle with the laminated programme in my lap. The lead tenor began a song, and I laughed at some of his physical comedy, when suddenly, a flash of light appeared in my eyes. 

It was accompanied by no noise, no commotion, no comment, and I blinked a few times, trying to distinguish what had happened. Were my eyes injured? Perhaps I hadn’t slept well enough last night, or eaten enough today. Or perhaps the followspot operator had misplaced his light. I brought a hand up to cover my eyes, gently rubbing them in the hopes of soothing them, when suddenly I felt something on my shoulder, and my hand fell from my face. It wasn’t an object, more like an enormous amount of heat, and I looked down to see a small sphere of light on my exposed skin. It was so concentrated, however, that I feared that it would have burned my skin or set my dress alight, had it lingered a moment longer. However, it vanished as soon as I had noticed it, and I looked out at the audience to where the light source had come from. My eyes scanned each row of the orchestra seating, seeing only people enraptured by the performance, and then moved up to the balcony. I searched each inch for somebody who was so unengaged with the performance that they would signal to me when suddenly I found, in a box almost directly across from me, was the Count, the Countess, and Olaf. 

Olaf was grinning at me, and I could see that he was gripping a shiny object in his hand that, when I squinted, I could see was a spyglass. That must be how he had shone the light on me, I realised, and I couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across my face. From next to me, I heard a tut and I could imagine Lemony rolling his eyes and crossing his arms; unimpressed as always by Olaf’s antics, but I ignored him. 

Olaf raised a hand and waved at me, and I blinked a few times, the grin frozen on my face, trying to decide what to do. I looked away from him, my eyes not able to help fluttering back and forth to him, as he looked at me in that way that gave me butterflies. 

Finally, sheepishly, I raised a hand, and waved in return.


	6. Package 1 - Handwritten Notes Between K., O. and B.

K- 

Tomatoes are red,   
Beatrice’s shirt is blue,   
It’s good to sit here,   
In the same room as you.

-O  
  


* * *

  
O- 

Not a very adventurous poem, but I do appreciate the effort. 

-K  
  


* * *

  
K- 

I’ve never been one for poetry.   
I take it that this means you’re speaking to me again? 

-O   
  


* * *

  
O- 

Perhaps. You made quite the impression at the opera. 

-K  
  


* * *

  
K- 

I try to make an impression wherever I go. You looked radiant that night. 

-O  
  


* * *

  
O- 

You’re absurd. It was dark, you could hardly see me. 

-K  
  


* * *

  
K-

I could see enough of you to know. You were as radiant as you’re looking right now. 

-O  
  


* * *

  
O- 

Focus on your reading.

-K  
  


* * *

  
K- 

You blushed. I saw you blush. 

-O  
  


* * *

  
O- 

I did not blush, it’s just warm in here. 

-K  
  


* * *

  
K- 

How strange, I felt a chill earlier. 

-O  
  


* * *

  
O- 

You must be imagining things. You are prone to fits of melodrama. 

-K  
  


* * *

  
K- 

That may be the case. But you blushed.   
The Count and Countess won’t be home tonight. I’m cooking. Come for dinner. 

-O  
  


* * *

  
O- 

I don’t know. What will you be serving? 

-K  
  


* * *

  
K- 

Spiced pumpkin soup with roast chicken and lemongrass rice. 

-O  
  


* * *

  
O- 

Mmm… I’m not a huge fan of lemongrass. 

-K  
  


* * *

  
K- 

Snicket, I am about thirty seconds away from committing a murder so brutal that Hannibal himself would be proud. Even if Olaf weren’t showing me these notes the moment that he receives them, your incessant giggling and smirks are distracting me from my Chaucer. He is besotted, so are you, and yes, you absolutely did blush. For the love of mercy, say yes to dinner tonight, before I throw you both out of my home and into the blizzard outside. 

-B  
  


* * *

  
O- 

I’ll be there at seven o’clock. 

-K  
  



	7. Package 1 - Assorted Letters

K- 

You are my dearest sister, this much has never faltered. However, I am beginning to lose my will to live. I understand that, for some unfathomable reason, you have decided to begin speaking to O again, in the hopes of engaging in some sort of relationship with him. I do not understand why, as the man is a cretin. The other day, when he tried to capture your attention with the eraser, it bounced off you and hit me. 

I am positively desolate. Please put me out of my misery and never speak to him again. 

-L

* * *

K, 

Due to an unfortunate blizzard, and a terrifying encounter with an aggressive herd of snow gnats, my trip to the Mortmain Mountains was unfortunately extended, and I write to you from a safe place, after enjoying a wonderful glass of fine whiskey. R and M are both here, as well as some of M’s less mammalian companions and R’s very mammalian and very attractive companion. 

I wanted to send my apologies that I will be missing another chess game, but I believe that I have some consolation for you; M has told me of a frog with two heads, who excretes a poison so toxic that a brief second spent in the bloodstream of any creature renders it lethal. After he returns home, he has promised to invite you some afternoon for tea and cake, to show you the specimen, and perhaps you can take a sample. 

Jacques mentioned in his last letter that you have taken up with Olaf. I will, for your benefit, refrain from gloating, on the condition that you kiss your new beau in front of Lemony and write back to tell me of his reaction. 

I hope to see you soon.

-B

* * *

Dear M, 

I wanted to write a formal note of thanks for allowing me access to your reptile room to collect the poison sample from your remarkable frog, it is perfect for my project. I also loved meeting your latest discovery, he was absolutely charming. However, as his name is something of a mouthful, not to mention being top secret, I shall henceforth just refer to him as Ink. 

Thank you for a wonderful afternoon, we shouldn’t leave it so long before we have another like it. Please let me know if I can help you in any way with your research. 

-K


	8. Package 1 - Handwritten Notes Between K. and O.

Olaf’s Reading List

Curated by K. Snicket (with love) 

  1. _A Room of One’s Own_ by Virginia Woolf
  2. _The Lathe of Heaven_ by Ursula LeGuin
  3. _Why We Broke Up_ by Daniel Handler
  4. _Frankenstein_ by Mary Shelley
  5. _The Bell Jar_ by Sylvia Plath
  6. _Love in the Time of Cholera_ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
  7. _Anna Karenina_ by Leo Tolstoy
  8. _The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up_ by Marie Kondo
  9. _Emma_ by Jane Austen
  10. _Another Country_ by James Baldwin



* * *

K, 

Please never make me read a book like The Bell Jar ever again. It makes me want to give up reading forever. 

I enjoyed Frankenstein, but the ending could have been more tragic. 

-O 


	9. Package 1 - Commonplace Book Entry: Restaurants

Restaurants Visited with Olaf

(and my reviews of them)

Stew Bistro

  * The smell of stew was overwhelming. It didn’t help that their special that night was tuna stew. The wine paired nicely with my meal. 



The Bermuda Trifle

  * The chicken was slightly dry, but served with a delicious cream of mushroom sauce. Olaf and I had a trifle eating competition, which I won, and this brought a jovial spirit to the end of the evening. I felt ill until bed. 



Chickpea Grove

  * Delicious starters, but my pasta was burned when it arrived at the table. I ate it, as I am not one to be argumentative with wait staff, but it was acutely unpleasant. Very strange decor. 



Cats and Kitchens

  * All food was feline-shaped; an excellent idea for the bread, terrible for the steak. Wonderful sorbet, served in a cat food dish. 



Café Salmonella

  * I refused to enter, and Olaf and I returned to his home where we ate cold roast beef. 



Mask Me About Our Specials

  * A pandemic-themed restaurant. Our meal was interrupted when a tall bald man wearing a hazmat suit threw a knife at Olaf, which he luckily dodged. The man left, and I lost one of my poison darts throwing it at him, which he also dodged. The food was delicious. 



Kaleing Me Slowly

  * Everything was made of kale, including the dessert. I have now lost my taste for kale. Olaf took me dancing afterwards. He cannot dance. It was very endearing. 




	10. Package 1 - Crumpled Receipt

**Sterling’s Silvers and Golds**

RECEIPT

1 Yellow Gold Engagement Ring affixed with 3 Rubies………………1

To be engraved with; “My Kit”

  
  


TOTAL SUM: A moderate amount of money. 

PAID FOR BY:  _ O. _


	11. Package 2 - Letter from Samuel Grouch, Caretaker of The City Theatre

Dear Inquirer, 

I hope that this letter finds you well. My name is Samuel Grouch, I have been the caretaker of The City Theatre for about forty years. As you can imagine, working at a theatre, we receive all manner of packages and deliveries; snack bar supplies, props and costumes and, on some occasions, even live animals. However, we have never received a delivery such as this; a brown paper package filled with journals and papers, addressed to someone simply known as The Inquirer. I wonder if the sender, a Mr. Twig from Mulctuary Money Management, used the correct stamps to send it. 

I am afraid to admit that, not knowing who The Inquirer was, I did open the parcel and examine the contents, and was about to dispose of the lot when I noticed the name on many of the documents; a K. Snicket. 

This name gave me some pause for thought, as it sounded distinctly familiar. You must understand, however, that being employed in one place for very long leaves a person’s memory wanting, as my head has been stuffed so full of the names and faces of passers-by and co-workers over the years. But, I did remember this name, from an incident that took place here over twenty-five years ago. 

In my office, I keep files pertaining to certain people or events in the theatre’s history, and I thought that I had seen a small bundle of documents, papers and files relating to a K. Snicket, including a commonplace book sealed in an envelope, such as the one that I found in this package. I must have collected them years and years ago and forgotten them, but I have added them to the parcel, in case they are of some use to you. 

I am very perplexed as to how your package found its way here, but perhaps it was fortuitous. I will send it onto you, and I hope that it will find you safely. Please do not hesitate to write back with any questions or inquiries about the activities at the theatre. 

Regards, 

Samuel Grouch  
Caretaker  
The City Theatre


	12. Package 2 - Letter to K., from B.

Dear K, 

I am writing to you on this gloomy  Thursday, at about eleven o’clock in the  evening, with absolutely no ulterior motive.  At last, my life is one of leisure, where I am able to enjoy  the more relaxed things in life, such as books, or the  opera, although I am certainly hoping that Friday will bring me a sunny day. Today, I have tried to make  two variations of my old paella recipe, but unfortunately, they have all tasted of  poison. I have put the recipe on my cork board in my study, next where I play  darts, so hopefully I will be able to workshop  and perfect it. Tomorrow, I’m going to  meet R at the train station and although she’s said that she’s looking forward to seeing  me, I doubt that will be the case. We’ll dine tonight  at Stew Bistro, and perhaps stop at a cafe on  the way back for a  snack \- perhaps a chocolate  bar? 

I hope you are well  during these chaotic times. Hopefully, you too will have such a delightful  intermission from your responsibilities. 

Your friend,

B


	13. Package 2 - Commonplace Book Entry: The Opera

I must preface this by saying that I have never cared for La Forza del Destino. The drama of this particular piece has never appealed and I much prefer the operatic works of Puccini or Wagner. But like Lemony, if Beatrice is performing, I will always be in the audience, and I resigned myself to suffering through three hours of absurd melodrama and convoluted murder plots for this purpose. This, and what I had been charged by Betrand to do. 

Poison darts have been a particular specialty of mine for quite some time. I don’t think I will call them a specialty any longer and, after the events of this particular evening, I’m sure that the sight of them will turn my stomach for many years to come. Laced with a substance only found in the glands of certain two-headed frogs kept by M, the slightest prick of the skin will cause a death so sudden and immediate that the recipient has nary a moment to understand that the pain is due to a sharp spike of metal in their neck, or that they are at the end of their life. Jacques has commented that this is truly their only mercy. 

Arriving at the opera happened with little delay thanks to my twin, who dropped me off on the marble steps with fifteen minutes to curtain; just enough time to enjoy a glass of kiwi punch before the performance, as was a specialty of this particular opera house. As the taxi pulled up, I thanked Jacques and exited, breathing in the cool evening breeze as I stepped out. There was a slight hint of horseradish in the air, as was normal for this area of the city, due to its close proximity to the infamous Lousy Lane, but it was distant and not overwhelming in the slightest. Still, the reminder of Paltryville and Lucky Smells filled my stomach with dread, and I couldn’t help but clutch my small purse a little tighter. Inside, of course, were the darts that Bertrand had asked for. He had only requested two, but I had made a third, in case whatever plan they had concocted didn’t go as desired and they needed additional help. I hadn’t dared reply to his letter to ask him what they were for or why he needed them. That sort of information in a written record could be incriminating, if not completely dangerous, and as it was rare that he withheld details like this from me, it must have been for a good reason. Among accomplices, one learned to rely on trust. 

I waved my brother away as the taxi drove off and moved towards the entrance. The front doors to the opera house were open and buzzing with the chatter of theatregoers. As I showed my ticket to the doorman and allowed myself to be ushered in, I was delighted to hear Beatrice’s name fall off the tongues of some patrons, but this was quickly snuffed out as it was intermingled with another name and I suppressed a scoff at the sound of it. _Esmé_. I am not an overly critical person, and pride myself on my ability to tolerate even the most odious of people, but Esmé certainly tested those limits. Her sharp comments towards myself, my friends and siblings, her obsession with superficialities, her flirtatious comments and wandering hands that somehow always seemed to be targeted towards… 

_Olaf_. As if on cue, a figure appeared in the crowd before me, and a soft smile spread across my face as I took in the familiar sloping shoulders, gangly limbs and pale skin that I had grown to care so much for, and I was cognisant of a swelling, nervous feeling that came over me far too often whenever I saw him. The concept of a romantic relationship had been so foreign to me for so long. I’d had sweeping feelings of love before - several foolish infatuations in my youth that had taken up far too much time spent longing and ultimately led nowhere - but this was a new sensation. It was excitement and adrenaline and fear, though not the sort of fear that comes when you are in a high speed chase to outrun a mad arsonist in your brother’s taxi that lost a wheel and is travelling precariously on the edge of a cliff. This was fear felt when defending something good and true, like the sort that comes when you are in a high speed chase to outrun mad arsonist in your brother’s taxi that lost a wheel and is travelling precariously on the edge of a cliff, but have an infant rescued from a burning building in the seat next to you. The kind of fear that makes one want to push their foot down on the accelerator and reserve a poison dart to find its home in the arsonist’s neck when they inevitably crash their vehicle. 

“Olaf.” I said simply, and the figure turned, my insides becoming molten lava as a crooked grin spread across his face. 

“Kit.” He replied, and our eyes ran over each other. He was wearing a black suit with a white dress shirt with a black waistcoat and a bowtie. Quite unlike his usual extravagant getups, this was understated and drew attention instead to his face, which was unhindered by its usual wisps of hair flying about it, as he had slicked all of it back out of his eyes, eyes which gazed at me. “You look exquisite.” 

I couldn’t help my smile grow slightly wider, my eyes glancing down at my clothes. I was never one for the extravagant outfits myself, and I wore the same dress to this performance as I had to many previous ones; a plain yet bright coral gown with short sleeves and a slightly rounded skirt. Nothing too eye-catching, yet it complimented me nicely, and I always noticed that, whenever he knew I’d be dressed up, Olaf opted to wear plainer clothes. 

“And you look so handsome.” I took a few steps forward, my hand automatically going to his warm cheek, as it was so wont to do. “I wish you’d wear this suit more, it becomes you.” I dropped my hand down to teasingly adjust his bowtie as I raised myself to my toes to press a kiss on his cheek, feeling goosebumps raise on my arms as his hand came to rest on the small of my back. 

He rolled his eyes at my compliment. “My parents will be here tonight.” The words came out almost in a sneer. “I haven’t seen them in a while, I thought I’d make a good impression.” As he spoke, the lights flickered, indicating for all patrons to make their way to their seats, and in turn, Olaf turned towards the staircase leading up to the boxes, and held out his arm for me to take. 

“Oh, if they’re here, we should say hello.” I said, taking his arm as we started to climb the stairs. I hadn’t met Olaf’s parents but I was loathed to ignore courtesies like this, particularly seeing as I hadn’t met the Count and Countess yet, and particularly if my instincts were correct and Olaf was indeed planning on asking me to marry him. 

As the thought ran through my head, a thrill went down my spine, the same thrill that I had felt when I found the receipt for the ring in his coat pocket. I had never dreamed of marrying. It wasn’t that I desired to avoid it, but rather that it seemed an unimportant inevitability that I would come to eventually in my life, when I had found somebody I wanted to partake in it with. But perhaps this, this new thrill, was what people felt when they described their detailed fantasies for marriage. Since learning of the possibility of marriage with Olaf, it felt like I was walking on a cloud. It was a type of happiness that had been so rare previously in my life, that I had so sorely missed, that made other things stop mattering. It didn’t matter that we had flaws, his propensity to engage in absurd theatrics, and mine to fly off in a temper. It didn’t matter that Lemony wasn’t fond of Olaf in the slightest and it didn’t matter that Esme followed Olaf around like a ghost. It didn’t matter that the organisation that we both cared for so deeply was balanced precariously over a schism that we felt the aftershocks of over and over again. For the time I was with Olaf, that all became a distant hum. I’d had to force myself to hold back from proposing to him myself, for the excitement of it all. 

Snapping me out of my thoughts, Olaf spoke. “We can say hello after the performance. They don’t like to leave their box and I don’t want to spend more time with them than I must, particularly during intermission.” 

I laughed despite myself, and allowed him to guide me to our usual box. Already there sat my younger brother, whose smile greeted me as I made my way inside, and he stood, pulling me into an embrace as comfortable and familiar as the embraces our mother had given us time and time again in our youths. 

“Hello, Kit.” He said in his usual deep, resonant tone. Despite the smile he offered as we pulled away from the embrace, I could see that his eyes were tired and looked slightly pained. How many late nights had he spent, agonizing over his duties for VFD, over his theatrical reviews for The Daily Punctilio, over constant worrying for Beatrice’s safety? 

I didn’t have a chance to ask before Olaf handed me a glass of kiwi punch and I took my seat, sipping the refreshing beverage as I did so. I sat between the two young men, receiving a grateful smile from each, and rolling my eyes in return. I loved them both, but they could be volatile when near each other, a civil conversation becoming a verbal spar very quickly. My brother’s disdain towards Olaf had lingered from childhood, Olaf’s theatrics being a constant source of irritation for Lemony. Olaf, on the other hand, had tried to make peace with Lemony, partly for my sake, and partly for the sake of his friendship with Beatrice. However, that had quickly soured after Lemony’s review of one of Olaf’s plays was less than favourable, and the two had been at odds ever since, to put it mildly. Still, I appreciated the way they held their tongue most of the time, as I knew it wasn’t easy, and I thought that perhaps someday they’d be able to put their weapons down and become, dare I say it, friends. 

I glanced up from where I was sat, looking over to where the Count and Countess were sat, in their own box. I knew their faces well from the many times I had glanced over to them during performances over the years. The Count was the spitting image of his son, if not burlier and more heavy-set than Olaf was. His hair had the same stiffness, his face often contorted into a frown, as Olaf’s was when he concentrated, and he bared the same unibrow. The Countess, on the other hand, was a thin and wiry woman, and it was easy to see where Olaf had inherited his gangly awkwardness from. They looked firm, but not strict or cruel, and I had never had any misgivings about meeting them; it was just Olaf who seemed reluctant to make the introduction. 

A shiver passed over my skin and I turned my head to see that Olaf had put his arm around me, his fingers softly running down my bare shoulder. It was an action he did often, one that I didn’t object to in the slightest. In return, I leaned into him, my head resting in the crook of his neck, and allowed myself to enjoy the moment; the pre-show buzz of the auditorium, the endearingly ludicrous sight of Lemony eagerly readying his typewriter, the very faint sound of Olaf’s heartbeat in my ear, nothing could spoil this moment- 

“Hello, darlings!” 

My first instinct, upon hearing the unmistakable sound of Esmé’s voice, was to close my eyes and pretend that it didn’t exist. It wasn’t that it was an unpleasant sound; her voice wasn’t nasal or high-pitched or a growl. It was, however, the tone in which she spoke, bubbling with a self-assurance that bordered on boastfulness, that grated on me. As well as that, it was the things that she said, either boasting of her theatrical talents (although I’m still not sure that she has any), speaking loudly about fashion or trends, or constantly throwing around off-handed comments to anyone in the room who wasn’t Olaf. 

“Ah, my prodigée!” Olaf greeted and I grit my teeth, pulling myself off him to sit up and reluctantly turn to greet her as she walked into the box. I tried my best to put a smile on my face but, from the raised eyebrow that Lemony shot me when our eyes briefly met, I’m sure that it looked more like a grimace. 

Esmé grinned at Olaf with a ferocity that was quite off-putting, her brilliant white teeth seemingly taking up half of her face. “Olaf, I must tell you about the soliloquy I practiced this afternoon.” She declared loudly, and before Olaf could respond, Esme had marched to the end of the row and began elbowing her way towards the empty seat next to Olaf. I had to suppress a laugh at Lemony’s face when she nearly kicked his typewriter off his lap, but my humour quickly evaporated when she stepped on the arch of my foot as she pushed past me. I hissed in pain, but bit my tongue, unwilling to admit how much her knife-like stiletto heel had hurt. However, it was in vain. 

“Oh. Sorry, dear, did I step on your foot?” She asked in a mock-sympathetic tone as she settled in the seat next to Olaf, her face betraying the fact that she clearly had no regard for any injury she may have caused. I flashed a smile back at her, my eyes narrowing slightly. 

“Don’t worry, I have toes of steel.” I replied tersely, making sure that the vague threatening tone that I had learned to employ was lacing my voice, despite my retort being somewhat pathetic. 

Esmé smirked at me. “Glad to hear it, sweetheart. I love your frock, by the way, it brings out the sallowness of your skin, and that is _so_ in right now.” 

Taking a deep breath, I raised my eyebrows and forced a smile for her. To my relief and delight, Olaf gave me a warm smile and reached his hand over to take mine, and I threaded our fingers together gratefully. I wasn’t sure how much Olaf was aware of the way Esmé got on my nerves, as I tried as hard as possible to conceal it, and many gatherings with Esmé invited usually involved knowing, irritated looks being exchanged between Lemony and I while we nodded along and pretended to enjoy her antics (although, that’s never much of a consolation; in truth, there are very few people who Lemony genuinely likes). When Olaf had told me of his mentoring, he had been feverishly excited about it, relishing the chance to share his theatrical talents with someone else. I had been excited as well, until I’d met Esmé. But Olaf’s enthusiasm never waned, and although I had initially felt jealousy that some other person had captured his attention, that jealousy faded and was quickly replaced by annoyance when I noticed that Esmé’s advances hadn’t ceased, despite them being one-sided, as far as I could tell. 

But Olaf loved me, that much was clear. Beatrice would always tell me that he only had eyes for me, that when the two of them went on walks or did puzzles together, I would eventually become the topic of any conversation. That was worth more than my irritation at his maddening prodigée. 

I readied myself to have to sit through another story of Esmé’s acting triumphs, and tucked my arm into Olaf’s in preparation. To my delight, however, the lights started dimming, and Olaf, ever the theatre purist, hushed Esmé in time for the performance to start. 

The opera was, as always, tedious. As I said before, La Forza del Destino has never appealed to me and this evening’s performance was mediocre at best. The costumes were ill-fitting, the sets still had parts left unpainted and the lead tenor’s voice trembled as if he were being shaken violently as he sang. I had resigned myself to resting my head on Olaf’s shoulder and counting audience members in the orchestra seats as I listened to Lemony’s fingers on the typewriter. Then, all so unexpectedly, Beatrice walked out onstage and the lights seemed to get brighter. 

She was in a dress of her own creation, a completely stunning strapless baby blue gown embroidered with wildflowers, which complimented her beautifully. Resting on her back, on the other hand, was a creation of my own; a pair of gauzy dragonfly wings that matched the dress and were almost weightless on her shoulders. I had built them according to VFD specifications; they were to be practical and able to be used in the case of an emergency escape, as well as ornamental. For this reason, I had ensured that they’d function almost identically to the wings of an actual dragonfly, including full steering control for the wearer, and the ability to support the weight of the human who would use them to navigate off the side of a cliff. 

But, Beatrice was only utilizing their ornamental function right now, and I can attest to the fact that nobody was complaining. As her aria began, her costume only augmented the entrancement she commanded from her audience when she performed, and as her voice soared over the crowd in the auditorium, I was reminded of the first time I heard her sing. I thought that I would begin sobbing, it was so beautiful. 

I glanced over to Lemony, chuckling slightly as I saw that his fingers had completely stopped typing, and were instead gripping the typewriter in his lap as he leaned in closer to the stage, his eyes fixed on the woman in the dragonfly costume. My feelings for Beatrice had been somewhat difficult to put to rest, and there had been one or two nights of relentless sobbing through childish heartbreak, when I learned that she reciprocated Lemony’s feelings. If his relationship with Jacques and I was any indication, I knew that my brother loved fiercely and wholly, and with a loyalty that would never be shaken. In truth, although I had always suspected that she would end up with Bertrand and hoped that she would end up with me, I was delighted that this had been the relationship to have prevailed. 

Beatrice’s aria marked the end of the first act of the opera, and Lemony’s typewriter would have crashed to the ground as he jumped to his feet in a standing ovation, had I not reached out and grabbed it just before it hit the floor. 

“Lemony, how is this typewriter still in one piece?” I asked as the lights in the auditorium came back up, handing him the machine with one hand. 

He sheepishly took it from me, examining it. “It isn’t. Bertrand has replaced several keys for me, and the semi-colon always gets stuck.” 

I laughed, but his words jolted me. Bertrand. It was intermission now, he’d be waiting at the snack bar, and I had a delivery to make. Of course, I was completely unaware of how much my theatregoing companions knew about whatever Bertrand’s plan was, so discretion was of the utmost importance. 

“Excuse me, everyone.” I said, plastering a smile on my face and grabbing my purse. “I’m feeling quite peckish, so I think I’ll go and find a cookie at the bar.” I stood up, brushing my skirt off. 

Olaf straightened himself up from where he had been slouching in his seat, and cleared his throat. “Oh, I’ll come with you, a cookie sounds good.”

“No, no, you stay, I’ll get you one.” I countered, leaning down for a moment to press a brief kiss against his lips. “My treat.” I murmured, pulling away, ignoring how Lemony’s face contorted into a look of sheer disgust at the exchange of affection. 

“Yes, Olaf, stay.” Esmé purred, turning to look at him with a lascivious smirk, before turning to me, a glint in her eyes that filled me with an acute disdain. “Don’t you worry, Kitty Cat, I’ll take good care of him while you’re gone.” 

In that moment, I considered leaping across Olaf’s lap and knocking her to the floor, using the strength that I had been trained to possess to pin her down and inflict injuries to her smug face that would wipe that grin right off it. And, truth be told, I probably would have done such a thing, had the reminder that intermission only lasted 15 minutes, and that I couldn’t let Bertrand down, not flickered through my head. 

Instead, I grit my teeth, giving her the most sarcastic smile I could compose my mouth into. “Thank you, Esmé.” I forced out, before turning towards my brother to start making my way out of the row, my muscles still stiff with trapped rage. As I passed behind his chair, we made eye contact, his face contorted into a knowing expression, his eyebrow arched. His hand raised, holding up a yellow pencil, and I huffed, snatching it from him as I moved past. My hands gripped both ends of the pencil and I snapped it in half, stuffing both pieces into my hair as I made my way out of the box and into the foyer. 

The foyer was crowded, as I had expected it to be, but there was no sign of Bertrand. I made my way down the stairs and across the hall to where the snack bar stood in the corner, the smell of baked goods and cherry liqueur slightly overwhelming, my eyes darting around for any sign of my friend. 

“What’ll that be, ma’am? We have drinks, savoury snacks, perhaps you’re looking for a Vanilla Flavoured Dessert?” 

My head whipped round to where the words came from, coming face-to-face with a waiter, and grinned as I realised who it was. 

“Larry. Good to see you. Where’s B?” 

The nervous-looking man nodded, clearing his throat. “Well, uh, if you’d like to come behind the bar, you’ll be able to see our full selection of refreshments, and make a choice from there.” 

Glancing around, I nodded and made my way to the corner of the bar. Making sure that nobody’s eyes were on me, I fell down to my hands and knees, and started to crawl behind the bar, trying not to crush the contents of my purse as I did so, or run into anything in the darkness. 

“Bertrand?” I hissed, before my head collided with something and I let out a yelp of pain, one that was also emitted from whatever I had just bumped into. 

“Ow… hello, Kit.” Bertrand muttered, rubbing his forehead with one hand, and I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the darkness so that I could see him better. 

“Hi.” I couldn’t help the rush of affection that overcame me, as I took in my dear friend who I hadn’t seen in months. “It’s good to see you.”

My grin was returned by his. “It’s good to see you too. You look lovely.” He frowned, looking down at my purse. “Did you bring them?” 

I started, having forgotten my purpose in this enterprise for a moment, and glanced at the small silk pouch. “Yes, I did.” I moved my weight onto my knees, my hands free to open the purse and pull out the small box. “I added a third one, in case you needed one more.” 

Bertrand took the box from me as I offered it, opening the lid and pulling a dart out. He examined it closely, careful to hold it from the winged end, lest the deadly point make contact with his skin. “Kit, these are exceptional.” He concluded, giving me a thankful smile. “Your talent has improved immeasurably.”

“Thank you.” I replied, being unable to help the way my face lit up at his compliment, watching as he put the darts back into the box and snapped the lid shut. He pursed his lips, all traces of a smile gone from his face. 

“Now, Kit…” He sighed, shaking his head. “Listen to me. During the second act, I need you to keep Olaf facing the stage. Don’t let him turn around at any point. No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, don’t let him turn around.” 

As Bertrand spoke, a sinking feeling filled my stomach. This meant that, whatever this scheme was, it involved Olaf, almost certainly without his awareness. I glanced down to where Bertrand held the wooden box, remembering the words of a teacher of mine at school; “if an associate asks for help, it’s better to give it, and not ask questions”. I knew that leaving the bar, trusting that Bertrand’s plan was for the greater good, and allowing it to unfold was the best option, but there was a nagging feeling in my gut that I had to follow. 

“It’s not… the darts aren’t for Olaf, are they?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper, as I realised that, even if it were the truth, Bertrand would very likely lie to me. Nevertheless, I felt a wave of relief as he shook his head. 

“No. Or I’d have asked for only one. Olaf will be okay. Well, maybe not okay, but he’s safe.” 

And it was then, at Bertrand’s words, that I realised what his plan was, and my heartbeat began to quicken. I exhaled, my mouth falling open, feeling slightly lost for what to say or do. 

“They’re for… the Count and Countess.” 

Bertrand avoided my eyes, but he nodded. “I’m sorry, Kit. But it has to be done.” 

I shook my head, my forehead knitting into a frown. “Why?” I demanded. 

“I can’t tell you that.” He replied immediately. “But this is VFD business. It’s important.” 

“Bertrand, you can’t do this.” I pleaded with him. “Olaf is your friend.” 

“He’s Beatrice’s friend too, and that hasn’t shaken her.” 

This stopped me. Beatrice was involved as well. My best friend had been plotting to kill the parents of someone who she had long considered to be akin to a younger brother. This had to be important, as Bertrand said. There was no way that I could ignore Beatrice’s judgment on the matter. 

I took a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to slow my rushing thoughts. “Olaf… he’s going to be devastated.” I breathed, looking up at him. “You’re going to hurt him.” 

He sighed, shaking his head. “This is why we need you to keep him distracted. Keep him facing the front, he’ll never know it was us.” 

I considered this for a moment. If Olaf was distracted, if he didn’t see Beatrice and Bertrand coming into the box behind him, poised and ready to strike, then perhaps his agony would simply focus on the loss of his parents, rather than his friends’ betrayal. 

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. “Alright.” I agreed reluctantly. Bertrand reached into his pocket, pulling out two vanilla and almond cookies, both wrapped in paper and handed them to me, gently squeezing my hand as he did so. 

“The world is quiet here.” He murmured, and I took a deep breath, before taking the cookies and nodding. 

“The world is quiet here.” I replied in a whisper, and he nodded, before the two of us both turned, and navigated our way out of the bar. 

I stood up finally, brushing the dust off my skirt and starting to make my way back, my thoughts a cluttered mess. I tried to logically think through the next sequence of events, piecing it together bit-by-bit, but none of it was straightforward, and I couldn’t stop the pounding in my ears, nor the way that phrase bounced around in my head; _the world is quiet here, the world is quiet here, the world is quiet here, the world is quiet-_

I was quickly snapped out of my thoughts as I felt a small, claw-like hand grab my arm, yank me to the side and pull me into a secluded corridor off the foyer. Before I knew it, I had my back pressed against the wall, and Esmé’s face was millimetres away from mine, her hands on my shoulders, pressing me into the wood. Briefly, I considered struggling; this was certainly not the position that I wanted or needed to be in right now, not to mention that I could think of countless faces I’d rather have nearly pressed up against my own. However, I simply froze, my jaw setting, waiting for what she had to say. She looked me up and down as I stood in front of her, a theatrically unimpressed look on her face. 

“Listen, you little worm.” She hissed at me. “I may not know Marlowe or Twain or any other pretentious nonsense you _Volunteers_ -” She spat the word out. “-may spout, but I’m not an idiot.” She smirked at me. “I know that you loathe me. In fact, I thrive in it. So, when you left the box, leaving Olaf with me, I knew that you were up to something. And now-” She reached down, snatching my purse out of my hand and holding it up. “Your little bag is emptier than before, and you look like you’ve eaten some bad salmon.” 

I raised an eyebrow, putting on some equally theatrical innocent eyes, and raising my hand that held the paper package containing the cookies. “I was just getting snacks.” I replied sweetly. 

This, however, was a mistake, and she pulled me away from the wall slightly, only to slam me back in. “Your little doe-eyed innocent act may work on Beatrice, or Lemony, or even Olaf… you might even be a better actress than me. But I have my eye on you, and if you do anything to jeopardize my mentorship with Olaf, then you should know what I’m capable of.” 

That was it. I’d had enough. In one quick movement, I dropped the cookies, letting them land with a soft crunch on the floor, and reached my hand up to my hair, grabbing the writing half of the pencil and yanking it out of the bun. Quickly, I moved so that it was hovering beneath Esme’s chin, the lead pointed up, and I was grateful for Lemony’s constant attentiveness to sharpening his pencils, as the razor-sharp point drifted threateningly over Esmé’s skin. 

“You listen to me now, Esmé, you are right about the fact that I loathe you, and that will probably never change, but I have no intention of ending your mentorship, so you should put that idea to rest. However, don’t forget that Olaf is involved with me, and not you, meaning that I have a lot of influence, and intentions can change.” I gently pushed the pencil into her chin, not breaking skin, but enough for her to feel its sharpness and for her muscles to tense. “I think you have a very good idea of what _I’m_ capable of, Esmé. You’ve seen it. When I put my mind to something, I don’t hesitate.” 

I maintained eye contact with her, no muscle in my face moving as I watched her digest my words. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, the lights flickered again, indicating that it was time to return to our seats, and thankfully, she released her grip on my shoulders. 

“Watch yourself, Snicket.” She muttered, throwing me one last withering look, before marching away. 

I watched her leave, panting slightly, and moved to push the pencil back into my hair as I picked up the cookies on the ground. Well, I had certainly underestimated the girl. It turned out that Esmé was far from merely an airheaded, superficial actress; her words had been brutal and her resolve clear. Not to mention that she was strong, and I winced slightly as I rolled my shoulders back and they protested loudly. Still, she was no match for me. She hadn’t received my training, and her actions, while forceful, were still clumsy. She posed no threat for me. 

Allowing the crowds to sweep me back up the stairs towards my box, I tried my best to compose myself. Esmé was no concern, surely, but Bertrand and Beatrice were. I had to hold myself together. 

I pulled back the curtains of the box, stepping in. The space around me felt immensely surreal, as if I had stepped into an oil painting. Esme was already sat next to Olaf, and shot me a murderous look as I stepped in, but I ignored it, moving back past Lemony to my seat. It was only after I had sat down that I noticed my brother watching me, a frown deep-set in his forehead. 

“Do you know?” I breathed, my voice inaudible to anyone who wasn’t Lemony, and he nodded once. 

“Yes.” 

I swallowed, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this.” I replied. 

He was quiet for a moment. “You’re going to do this because you have to.” He replied simply. 

I turned to look at him and, where I was expecting to see smugness in his eyes that Olaf, his least favourite person in the world, would be receiving a punishment such as this, there was only a quiet apology directed towards me. I gave him a nod, before looking down at my hands and, after a moment, his hand, which came to cover one of mine and give it a small squeeze. 

“Are you alright?” A deep voice to the other side of me asked, and I started, turning to face Olaf, who was watching me with concern, and I wanted to burst into tears at the sight of him, completely unaware of what was to transpire. 

But I nodded, giving him a small smile. “Yes, I’m fine. Here.” I handed him a paper parcel with a cookie. “I’m sorry that it took so long, the snack bar was crowded.”

He took the cookie, his grin widening. “Almond, my favourite.” He commented, leaning over to give me a kiss on the cheek. 

“That’s why I picked it.” I replied, feeling the guilt fill my stomach, but refusing to let it bubble over. This plan, like every VFD plan, was in accordance with what we had been taught as children, that the organization comes first, that feelings must be put aside, and I was able to understand that. However, I also couldn’t ignore the way it went against everything that literature, books and stories had taught me. How could I sit here, with the person I cared for most in the world, knowing that he was about to become orphaned, and lie to him? 

The moment the thought entered my head, a familiar voice kicked it out, reminding me that, yes, the organization certainly comes first. That was how it is, and how it always has been. I’d done this enough times to be able to push my own feelings aside and do what needed to be done. I was a volunteer, this is what volunteers do. _The world is quiet here, the world is quiet here, the world is quiet_ -

“I love you.” I said abruptly, looking at Olaf, my eyes wide. “I… I don’t say it enough, but I do.” 

His grin slowly melted away and he watched me for a moment, before leaning in close and pressing his lips against mine. This kiss was deep, and tender, and his hand gently cradled my cheek as he held me, his thumb running softly over my skin. He pulled away a moment later, resting his forehead against mine, a small smile on his face. “I love you too.” He said simply. “In fact… let’s take a walk along the shoreline after the performance. I have something I want to ask you.” 

He sat back in his seat, giving me a toothy grin, and my heart broke. The proposal. The proposal that, I knew instantly, wouldn’t be happening tonight. But I gave him a sheepish smile back, nodding. “That sounds good.” I replied, settling into my seat and turning away from Olaf. 

Without thinking, my eyes drifted across the auditorium to where the Count and Countess were sat in their box. They were enjoying glasses of kiwi punch themselves, but sitting in silence and waiting for the performance to start. As I watched, the Countess’ eyes scanned over the seats and landed on our box, before meeting mine. I started as this happened, my mouth falling open, and I realise in hindsight how ridiculous I must have looked. But, if I did seem ridiculous, she didn’t let it show. Instead, she gave me a small smile, and lifted her hand in a wave. My body moved automatically, my arm raised itself, and I waved back. 

The lights dimmed, and the second act began, Beatrice onstage the moment the spotlights turned on. She had abandoned the dragonfly wings, I was somewhat disappointed to see, but was instead wearing a white lace gown, wrapped in a red shawl that complimented her elegantly, long white feathers dripping off it. However, I barely took her in, too preoccupied to think of anything but Olaf next to me, and I was only too happy to let the rest of this opera run over me like water off a duck’s back. 

Beatrice left the stage, and my apprehension grew. I didn’t know when it would happen, and every second that ticked by felt like an hour. At some point, Olaf gently put his hand on my leg, and it was only then that I realised that I’d been shaking it, a habit from my childhood that I’d hoped I’d grown out of. I turned and gave him an apologetic look, and he just took my hand in response, threading his fingers with mine in the way that he knew I loved. 

We were reaching the climax of the opera, the lead-up to the gunshot, and my eyes were glued to the action onstage, despite paying attention to none of it. I hoped that, even considering the horrendous singing and terrible design of the performance, it was enough to entrance Olaf, so that he didn’t look behind him. 

I heard the sound of the curtains rustling behind me and my muscles tensed. I couldn’t see them, but I imagined Beatrice and Bertrand creeping in behind, each gripping one of my darts, readying themselves to aim. The singing onstage became more frantic as the drama of the opera built, the orchestra growing louder and louder. I heard whispers behind me, knowing that I should be doing more to keep Olaf’s attention away from my two associates, but not daring to move a muscle. 

The music seemed to whir around me, as it built to a crescendo that filled the whole room with a tension that felt suffocating. There was a thump behind me, and I willed with everything I had that Olaf wouldn’t turn around. My heart was thundering. They were being too loud, I needed to pull his attention away from them, but I couldn’t move, I… I wouldn’t move. The music swelled until it felt as if it was deafening, and I knew the gunshot was about to go off. This was the moment. Point something out, offer another snack, kiss him, anything to distract him. 

I did nothing. 

The gunshot went off, and Olaf turned to look behind him, just as two poison darts flew through the air, across the auditorium, and landed perfectly in the necks of both the Count and the Countess. 

The auditorium was silent for a moment, and I watched it happen in slow motion. First, the look of mild alarm on their faces, their hands going up to tap the darts with their fingertipd, trying, in a split second, to understand what had happened. Then, their heads turned, and they shared a look; one of surprise, but also a knowing look, as if they had been expecting something like this, just unaware that it would be happening now. Then, and this happened the slowest, Olaf turned his head back, in time to watch his parents fall back in their seats, and slide off them onto the floor. 

The audience erupted in applause, completely unaware of what had transpired, and I dragged my eyes away from the box to look at Olaf. He was looking at his parents with an expression that I could only define as… mild curiosity. It was as though he hadn’t quite understood what had happened; what it meant that his dear friends had just thrown the darts to kill his parents. That he was now an orphan. 

“Olaf-” I whispered shakily, but Olaf just shook his head, his body tense. He stood up quickly and froze for a moment, as if deciding what to do, before turning and sprinting past Beatrice and Bertrand, out of the box. 

As he left, I caught Esmé’s eye, and she glared at me. “ _You_.” Was all she said, but I ignored her, standing up myself and starting to leave the box. As I walked past Bertrand, who seemed to be glued to where he was stood, he grabbed my arm. 

“Kit, you were supposed to stop him from turning around.” He said softly. I tried to think of some response, some reason why I didn’t, but I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know how to explain why I had let Olaf see, because I didn’t know myself. Shaking his hand off my arm, I ran past them and out into the foyer, looking wildly for Olaf. I saw him turn into a corridor, one that I knew led to his parents’ box, and darted after him, still not quite as fast. 

I rounded my way to the curtains at the entrance of the box and opened them, in time to see Olaf kneeling on the floor, looking at where his parents lay, their eyes still wide open with the shock of the poison. It was a ghastly sight, and the knowledge that it was my handiwork that had caused this sent wave of nausea through me, but I forced it down. 

“Olaf.” I breathed, but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t move either, instead just staring at the dead Count and Countess, not touching them, not crying, not even shaking. He was just still. In many ways, he reminded me of myself the moment I learned that our own parents had perished; so shell-shocked, unable to grasp the reality of the situation. 

I took a few steps into the box, kneeling down next to him and reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. “Olaf, I’m so sorry.” I whispered. He tensed for a moment, before turning to me, his brow knit with confusion. 

“Kit… how did this happen?” He asked, but I knew he wasn’t really asking. I stammered for a moment, trying to think of a response, but a shout interrupted my speech. 

“The Count and the Countess! They’ve been murdered!” The voice exclaimed, and we both looked up, wide-eyed. Olaf’s jaw set as he stood up again and, in an instant, was gone from the box. 

“Olaf!” I cried, standing up to follow him, and I chased him through the foyer, into a side door, and down several spiral staircases. He and I both knew this theatre like the backs of our hands, and I knew exactly where he was going; the only way to leave the building while avoiding the crowds. 

We got to the basement, a musty room filled with props, and I caught up with him in time to see him pull open a trap door and jump through it, so naturally I followed suit, uncaring for the muck that got on my dress; the VFD tunnels were practical, perhaps, but they were unkempt. 

As I landed into the dimly-lit passage, Olaf was already storming away and, tired, I simply called out to him. “Olaf, please stop!” And, to my relief, he stopped. We were both still for a moment, and I swear I could hear both of our heartbeats echoing in the brick tunnel, before I saw his body heave a heavy sigh, and he dropped to his knees, his head low and shoulders slumped. 

I took a few steps towards him. “Olaf, I’m so sorry.” I said softly. I knew that nothing I said right now would be any comfort, so I lifted my skirt slightly to kneel on the floor behind him, slowly wrapping my arms around his shoulders and holding him to me. Instantly, he gripped onto my arms and let out a sob, the sound of which was an odd one; I had never heard Olaf cry, and it sounded like something akin to a weeping child, quite a startling sound to come from such a tall, deep-voiced person. One sob turned to two, which only multiplied further, and I desperately tried to hold back my own tears, in the fear that they’d betray my guilt. 

We sat there for a while, and I could hear the commotion in the theatre above us; shouts and cries for help, thundering footsteps, the terrifying sound of sirens making their way down the street. We sat there until, all too suddenly, Olaf’s sobs stopped, and he pulled away, looking at me. 

“It was Beatrice and Bertrand. I saw them.” His words came out staccato and acidic, as if their names were ugly words that should never be said. I watched him, my chest tightening, before nodding once. His gaze grew more intense, his jaw set, and then he spoke, and my blood turned cold; “And they’ll burn for it.” 

He pulled away from me, standing up, and I watched him from the ground, my mouth hanging agape. “What?” Was all I could muster. He walked a few steps from me, panting slightly with adrenaline, and I slowly stood up, watching him with apprehension. 

“They were my friends, Kit, they were my friends, and they killed my parents.” He didn’t shout, but his voice echoed around the tunnel in what could only be described as a boom. 

“Yes…” I trailed off, searching for something to say. “But… there was probably a reason, Olaf-”

“What reason could there be?” His voice thundered, and I couldn’t help but flinch as he turned to me. “What reason? I loved Beatrice, I thought she cared about me. What reason do you have to do something like this to someone you care about?” 

I could think of nothing to say to that. He was right, he had no idea how right he was, so I simply closed my mouth, watching him. He watched me for a moment, before coming towards me and grabbing my hands. 

“Kit, let’s leave this. Let’s leave them, all of them, let’s find somewhere together and start a life.” He said, leaning down slightly until we were face-to-face. 

My face paled, and I stared at him, confusion clouding my head. “I… I can’t, I can’t just leave.” I stammered, not understanding how he could even suggest this. 

“Why not?” He asked, before letting go of my hand and scrabbling through his pockets. It took him a moment, but he finally produced what he was searching for and, as he held the object out to me, I was heartbroken to see that it was a ring, exactly as the receipt in his pocket had said it would be; golden, with three rubies glittering in it. It was lovely, and I thought of the hours I had spent imagining him slipping it onto my finger, of the promise that it would represent. A promise to care for each other, to protect each other from harm, to never cause that harm; promises that I had already broken. “Kit, marry me, please, spend your life with me, far from here, far from these people who’ll only hurt us.” 

I watched his pleading face, my eyes flickering from his, and then back to the ring. This was what I wanted, yes, but it was wrong, this was all so wrong. I took a deep breath, shaking my head. “No, Olaf, I can’t. Not like this.” I breathed, willing myself not to cry as I said no to something that I had dreamed about for weeks now. 

He was still for a moment, looking down at the ring, before he cleared his throat, straightening himself out and walking away for a moment. The silence was deafening. Slowly, he turned around and looked at me, defeat in his eyes. “I don’t understand.” He began. “I thought you loved me. I don’t understand why you would choose murderers over someone you love.” 

My mouth fell open at that, and a shiver ran down my spine as he referred to my best friends as murderers. Anger flashed inside me, but before I could say anything, he continued. 

“Don’t you see, Kit? They’re all monsters. Every volunteer, every person who claims to be noble. They’re all willing to kill too. Like your brothers.” He spat the word out, and my eyebrow raised of its own accord. 

“Don’t say anything about my brothers.” My words were instant, and I couldn’t stop the edge in my voice, an apprehensive warning to him. I had very few lines in my life that would warrant a warning before crossing, but speaking ill of my family members was very firmly one of them. Olaf knew this well, and had respected it up to this point, but his scoff told me that this would be when that courtesy would stop. 

“Lemony is odious, able to ruin any good person for his own means, not to mention pompous and pretentious. He’s never approved of us, and he never will. And Jacques is so married to VFD that I’m sure that he would even tie you to the tracks if he had to. They’re monsters, and the world would be better off without them.”

I listened to him, my blood getting hotter and hotter as he spoke. His insults to Beatrice and Bertrand had been one thing, of course. But his words about my brothers were a dagger wound in my side that I knew would not heal quickly. A million thoughts rushed through my head, including the faces of each brother, but over it all, I just heard my mother’s voice; “we Snickets take care of our own”. 

“I made the darts. I gave them to Beatrice and Bertrand.” 

The words slipped out of me before I could stop them, and I stared at Olaf, my jaw set, fury running through my body in red-hot waves, and I knew in an instant why I had said them. If Olaf was going to spit such venomous words about my family to me, I was going to hurt him back. I was going to take something that he loved and ruin it, even if that something was myself. 

For a moment, his face contorted into an expression that destroyed me to know that I had caused; a brutal and violent heartbreak, a betrayal that was unfathomable to any good and noble person. It was as if I had pushed him off a precipice, and he had taken a moment to register that it was my hands on his back that had sent him into freefall; that somebody he loved had made the decision to unhinge his life in such a way. Then, in an instant, it was gone. He stared back, all emotion escaping from his face. Suddenly, I stopped recognising him; he was no longer the gangly, awkward boy I had been so excited to become engaged to only a few hours ago. He now looked older. Resentful. Angry. 

He took a step towards me, and I wanted to run, but I stood my ground. Whatever he did, whatever he said, I could hold my own. He closed the gap between us, holding out the hand that was still holding the ring. 

“Then I suppose you’re a monster too.” He spat out, dropping the ring at my feet, where it landed with a soft clang. 

I watched him as he pulled away, an ugliness in his eye that unsettled and terrified me. He kept eye contact as he took a few steps back, before turning and breaking into a sprint down the long tunnel, and I watched until he was out of sight. 

Not quite knowing what to do, I looked down at where the ring had landed at my feet, and I picked it up, examining it. It hadn’t become too damaged from the fall, just a minor scratch. I turned it over, a wave of sorrow taking me over as I saw the engraving; _My Kit_. 

I had to go home. Not only was it unsafe to be in this tunnel alone, it was also not conducive to anything. I turned to the ladder that led back up to the theatre, shoving the ring into my dress and starting to climb. I made my way through the theatre, ignoring the commotion that was still happening around me, until I arrived outside. I was prepared to begin walking home, until I saw a familiar yellow cab parked outside the entrance. In the front seat, of course, was Jacques. 

His head turned and we made eye contact, him taking in my dishevelled appearance and nodding once, indicating for me to climb in. In an instant, I felt a rush of affection for him. Yes, my relationship was finished, I had broken a heart in a way that hearts should never be broken, but I had done it out of love for my brothers. My good, kind brothers, who waited for me after a night like this, who held my hand during painful moments, who were always there with wise words or pencils for snapping. That was worth something. 

I climbed into the backseat of the taxi wordlessly, and we sped down the streets of The City in silence. I appreciated this, as it was the only thing stopping me from falling apart in an instant. It seemed to be less than a minute before we arrived outside the mansion we three Snicket siblings shared. 

“Go inside. I have a few more things to do.” He said in a gentle voice, and I nodded, opening the door and climbing out. I looked at the house as the taxi drove away. Where had once seemed like such a welcoming place, where had once seemed like home, now looked cold, and heartless. When I had left home this evening to go to the opera, I was abuzz, my stomach fluttering, so excited for the evening ahead. I came home as a different person. 

I walked up to the door, prepared to find my key, but was puzzled to see that it was unlocked. I pushed it open, hearing voices in the sitting room, and wandered inside. Sat on the carpet, near the fire, were Beatrice, still in her white gown and red shawl, Bertrand, his eyes stained with tears, and Lemony, who was not sat, but was instead stood in the corner, a deep frown set into his forehead. 

“Kit.” Beatrice breathed as I walked in. “I’m so glad you’re alright, we lost track of you.” Her face was blotchy and her eyes were red, and it was evident that she had been crying. 

Bertrand frowned at me. “What happened to Olaf?” He asked. 

I watched them for a second, before reaching into the folds of my dress and pulling out the ring. I didn’t show it to them, I only looked down at it, before letting out a sob. This was enough for Beatrice to understand, and she reached a hand out, whispering; “Come here.” 

I moved over to where they sat on the floor, falling onto my knees and burying my face in my hands, allowing myself to cry as freely as I’d wanted to from the moment that I heard what the darts would be used for. Both Beatrice and Bertrand put their arms on my shoulders, sitting with me as I sobbed, before they joined suit, and the three of us cried together. Bertrand, for the friend he’d lost. Beatrice, for the closest person she’d ever had to a sibling. Me, for the loss of the person I had been sure I wanted to spend the rest of my life with; the person I had thought could be the love of my life, who had looked at me as if I was a villain. Perhaps I was. 

And, we all cried for the lives we had taken that day. Perhaps, as Beatrice and Bertrand certainly felt, it had been for noble reasons and perhaps, as I was telling myself, it hadn’t been intentional. But, regardless of the excuses that we gave ourselves, the fact remained that, because of the three of us, two lives had been lost tonight. Two lives had been lost and, somewhere in the city, a young man wandered the streets, betrayed by his friends and, now, an orphan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand that was the opera scene. I hope you all enjoyed this!! Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!


	14. Package 2 - Poster for The City Theatre's production of My Silence Knot

**The City Theatre Presents**

_ My Silence Knot _

A Theatrical Production, starring; 

Beatrice Baudelaire as _The Baticeer_

Band Terr as _The Brae-Man_

Tommey Gron as _The Charmer_

Zack Quiessel Jancy as _The Detective_

Stan Hiliweek as _The Sailor_

Libavia Ancoil as _The Magician_

Dan Nouf Tenemerk as _The Brother_

With assistance from; 

Wids Shinder, Lighting

Nittis Keck, Set Construction

Tony le Snemick, Script

Quince S. Jackets, Cast and crew transportation

2 weeks only!

Contact Samuel Grouch for tickets.


	15. Package 2 - Letters to and from K., L. and O.

Dear L, 

I’m writing you this letter as I’m afraid that I won’t be home for a few days, I’m needed at Paltryville to help with the construction of the new legal library and won’t see you until I’m back. B stopped by this morning, after you’d already left for your shift at The Daily Punctilio. And, if I’m honest, it’s probably a good thing that you’re not here to experience my wrath, as I had to learn from her, and not you, that you two are engaged. 

She told me that it happened last night, both of you returning home quite late but, regardless, I am completely and utterly furious with you for not waking me immediately to tell me of this news. Prepare yourself to be thoroughly shouted at when I return home. 

B was beside herself when she told me. Congratulations, L, you both deserve happiness, and I hope you’re able to find it with each other. 

Love, 

K

PS; ‘B.S.’ is a rather terrible set of initials… perhaps you’d consider taking her surname? ‘L.B.’ is much more refined. 

* * *

Dear K, 

Thank you for your last letter, and for helping allocate the funds needed for this particular endeavour. I’ve found a parcel of land in the hinterlands that I think would be perfect, and I’ll now be able to purchase it. All that’s left to do now is to make it as appealing a place as possible; the less neglected it appears, the more we can use it as a cover for our work. 

I have found the perfect disguise for myself; a fortune teller, by the name of Madame Lulu. Slightly predictable, perhaps, but it should avert suspicion. 

When you’re able to, I’d love for you to come and take a look, and maybe advise on some of the technical elements of the circus. I want to have it all in place before we hire our employees. 

I will alert you should anything change at any point. 

The world is quiet here, 

O


	16. Package 2 - Letters to and from K., I., and The City Theatre

To The City Theatre Box Office, 

I am writing to you regarding the four tickets that I purchased in the Snicket box for Thursday’s performance of  _ The World Is Quiet Here _ , starring Beatrice Baudelaire. I have just been informed that Miss Baudelaire will no longer be appearing in this particular performance, and that the play has been renamed to  _ One Last Warning to Those Who Try to Stand in My Way.  _ In light of this, I  would like to return the tickets and request a refund please. 

I hope that we will be in attendance for the next production staged at the theatre. 

Regards, 

K. Snicket

* * *

Dear K, 

I am sorry for my lapse in contact, J and I have been awfully busy with construction work on our home. As I mentioned when we last spoke, we have chosen the spot in town with the most dazzling view of the lake, but unfortunately construction has had to be halted several times due to high winds. When we are finished, perhaps you and your brothers would like to visit. 

However, the reason why I’m writing is because I’ve heard tell of a string of fires in The City. Although this isn’t completely out of the ordinary, the targets seem odd; quite random and without any pattern or motive, it seems. I just wanted to ensure that everything was alright, and that you all are able to manage this. If not, we’ll have to discuss what to do further, as this is beginning to look worrying. 

Please write back soon. 

\- I


	17. Package 2 - Letters to and from K., B. and Eleonora Poe

Dear Miss Snicket, 

Thank you for your letter from last Tuesday, it did prove for quite an entertaining read for myself and all other journalists here. While I am terribly sorry to hear of the troubles that your brother is having, unfortunately we cannot retract what we printed the other day in Geraldine Julienne’s column. The Daily Punctilio’s aim is, as always, to produce stories so sensational that readers have no choice but to gasp, cry out and cling to their children in fear, and when we have done that, we’ve done our job. The story about your brother and those fires truly did go above and beyond in that respect. 

And, if you’ll read carefully, you’ll see that we didn’t fabricate anything in the article (aside from the specific times of three of the fires, because we didn’t know, and the color of the shirt Mr. Snicket was wearing, because blue was a rather dull choice for an arsonist). It certainly appears to be that your brother did set these fires, and it would be disingenuous to our readership if we were to ignore that. And regardless, after being fired from his position as theatrical critic a month ago, we are very unlikely to approve of the printing of anything vaguely positive regarding Mr. Lemony Snicket. 

I do suggest that you find a reputable lawyer for your brother, though, as I have some information about tomorrow’s front page that he may want to prepare for. 

My warmest regards, 

Eleonora Poe  
Editor-In Chief  
The Daily Punctilio

* * *

Dear B, 

I’m sorry that I haven’t written or come to visit sooner. Time seems to elude me more and more each day; between research, VFD correspondence and increasingly troubled situations that the Snicket name is being continuously dragged into, I find little time to talk to those I love. And for that, I’m truly sorry. 

I write to you now asking for help. Yesterday, The Daily Punctilio ran a front page story about a butcher shop that went up in flames on Friday evening. Alongside it, they printed a photograph of L, captioning it with ‘The guilty arsonist’. This is the sixth fire that the paper has accused my brother of setting, and I don’t know what to do about it, especially since the evidence that L is responsible is overwhelming, despite the fact that it was impossible for him to have been present for any of these fires. I have tried writing to the paper to ask them to retract their accusations, but they have been frustratingly evasive, as can be expected from someone as obtuse as Eleonora Poe. 

At the moment, I’m compiling any and all evidence I have that my brother is not responsible, and that O has been framing L for fires that he set, as that seems to be the case. The fires are too random, too clumsy, to be the work of anyone who didn’t simply want revenge and, although L wasn’t directly involved with the incident at the opera, he certainly did no small job of antagonising O over the years, particularly in recent months with his reviews. Regardless, we must clear L’s name. 

I’m aware that your engagement with L was called off a week ago. He has been desolate and has barely left his bedroom, in part due to the accusations, and in part due to melancholy. He hasn’t divulged exactly what happened, and I haven’t wanted to mention it to you either, at least not until this whole arsonist business has been finished, but now I’m left with no choice. 

I need any and all information that you can give me about where L was during the second and third fires. I have no idea what alibi he might have, and my only thought is that he was with you, but he won’t talk about you right now, so I can’t get it out of him. He’s so distant and quiet with heartache that he’s unable to do what he needs to help himself. 

Please, B. Whatever happened between the two of you, you must know he’s innocent. And, if you don’t, please do this to help me. I can’t lose my brother to this. 

-K


	18. Package 2 - Commonplace Book Entry: The Fires

Fire 1 - Mulligan’s Stationary Store and Taffy Emporium. Blaze set at 6:37 PM, burned for 45 minutes before the official fire department arrived. Several crates of taffy were reported missing half an hour before the fire was set. 

  * Lemony’s alibi: At home with me and Jacques, reupholstering the red reading chair in the library. 
  * Evidence: The completed chair, the discarded fabric. 



Fire 2 - Kaleing Me Slowly Restaurant. Blaze set at 6:23 PM, burned for an hour and a half. The official fire department didn’t show up, volunteers helped put out the blaze. A very thorough job of setting the fire. 

  * Lemony’s alibi: ______________? Ask Beatrice
  * Evidence: ______________? Ask Beatrice



Fire 3 - Soggy Lettuce Greengrocer. Blaze set at 7:46 PM, burned for 3 hours. Henry Haricot, the greengrocer, sadly perished in the flames. The official fire department showed up, but the blaze was too aggressive; whoever set it used gasoline. 

  * Lemony’s alibi: ______________? Ask Beatrice
  * Evidence: ______________? Ask Beatrice



Fire 4 - Harpo’s Salon and Spa. Blaze set at 5:24 PM, burned for 20 minutes. Volunteers getting spray tans at the time managed to extinguish the flames before the official fire department arrived, and part of the building was salvaged, despite a lot of damage in other parts. 

  * Lemony’s alibi: Spent the day with Monty, cataloguing scale patterns, left Monty’s home at around 6 PM, returned home at around 7:45 PM. 
  * Evidence: The completed catalogue, samples that he brought back with him in small glass jars. 



Fire 5 - The Bermuda Trifle. Blaze set at 7:04 PM, burned for an hour. The most devastating fire yet. Four staff members and seven patrons were killed in the flames. Neither the official nor volunteer fire department arrived in time, and the fire went out on its own. 

  * Lemony’s alibi: At Briny Beach with Jacques and Frank Denouement. They left at about 5:30 PM and returned at 9 PM. 
  * Evidence: Their trolley tickets, seashells he collected, a jellyfish sting on his ankle from going wading in the water. 



Fire 6 - Lyman’s Kosher Butcher’s. Blaze set at 6:57 PM. Burned for around 45 minutes. Three staff members, who seemed to be intentionally locked in the walk-in freezer, perished. The official fire department was not called. 

  * Lemony’s alibi: In his bedroom. 
  * Evidence: Several soiled handkerchiefs, several dinners sent up that remain uneaten, several letters to Beatrice started, yet unfinished. 




	19. Package 2 - Letter to M., from K.

M, 

I’m so sorry to contact you in this manner and, due to my distress, I will not be making smalltalk. I wanted to know if you had heard from or seen L in the past few days. He’s been perturbed, and isolated himself in his bedroom. I thought that he was overcome with melancholia for B, as the meals we left outside his bedroom have been left uneaten since Tuesday. Today, I decided to try and coax him into eating, and he wasn’t there. In fact, all of his personal belongings were either gone or in a state of disarray, and his suitcases absent. 

J and I are both flummoxed. I am writing to everybody I know to ask if they have heard from my brother, and to give us some sort of news, especially now that a seventh and eighth fire have been set, and L has been blamed. 

Please write back if you hear anything. 

\- K


	20. Package 2 - Handwritten Note to K., from B.

K, 

I am sending this note to arrive at your home fifteen minutes before I do. I would wait to impart this news until I arrived, but I thought you should know of this as soon as possible. Inside the envelope with this note is the obituary section from today’s edition of The Daily Punctilio. I have circled what you must read. 

I am so sorry, K. I know you loved your brother, and I did too. He was a wonderful friend. I’ll be there soon, I promise. I love you. 

\- B


	21. Package 2 - Letter to Eleonora Poe, From K.

Eleonora, 

I just read today’s edition of The Daily Punctilio, and to say that I am disgusted would be an understatement. The passage I object to reads, as follows; 

“Mr. Lemony Snicket, the instigator of the notorious nine fires that overtook The City a short time ago, thankfully died a month ago. The infamous arsonist, once fired from this very paper for insidious lies spread through his theatrical review column, set fire to nine establishments in The City, seemingly with no remorse. His death comes as a great relief to all who do not wish to perish in terrible fires.” 

How dare you write and publish such slanderous words? Lemony was innocent of these crimes, as any person willing to look beyond sensationalism would be able to see. As well as this, he is now dead, in no small part thanks to you, and his family is grieving. You may not believe in his innocence, but I do, and I will never stop working until his name is cleared and he is absolved of these crimes that he did not commit. 

I warn you, Eleonora, if another such article about my brother is printed, you and the paper will face slander charges. 

\- K. Snicket.


	22. Package 2 - Commonplace Book Entry: Tea

My tea was getting cold. I stared into the ceramic cup, a slight frown on my face as I watched the clear brown liquid swirl around with my teaspoon. I appreciated Beatrice for many things, but her taste in tea was questionable at best and, upon arrival, had presented me with a choice of several varieties of fruit tea, and an Earl Grey. I had chosen the latter, as it seemed to be the least offensive, but one sip had told me that she had almost certainly not bought this tea in the past decade. 

I was glad that Beatrice had invited me today, as it had been entirely too long since we had seen each other last. Seven months, to be precise, almost to the day since Lemony’s funeral. She had gone, of course, but we hadn’t spoken; I spent the day almost entirely in silence, not wanting to say a word to anybody, not even to Jacques, and particularly not to the woman who my late brother had loved so deeply. I could tell that she had understood, as she kept her distance for the rest of the day and hadn’t come to the Shiva, simply sending challah with Bertrand in her stead. There was no animosity between the two of us, and we both knew this; it was just that it was too painful. 

Since that day, I had wanted to approach her, but had been so lost in a cloud of my own grief and mourning that I couldn’t find the words, no matter how many times I picked up my fountain pen to send a message her way. The days began to pass me by, and life had slowly gone back to something that, to the untrained eye, had begun to resemble normalcy. Of course, none of it was normal. I could peruse the library, but Lemony wasn’t in his worn leather chair, frowning over a Melville novel, emitting the occasional huff. I could prepare my tea in the morning, but Lemony wouldn’t be hunched over a grapefruit, reminding me to strain the water twice. I could walk down the corridor in the evening after washing my face and saying goodnight, but I wouldn’t hear the frantic sound of Lemony’s fingers tapping away at his typewriter, a sound that would go on until the early hours of the morning, a sound that the Snicket mansion echoed without. 

And I had wandered this vast house for months, as if in a haze, communicating only when it was urgent, and leaving only for supplies or small missions required by other associates. Jacques, on the other hand, had barely been home, taking the taxi to headquarters every week. He told me that it was to tend to pressing business regarding the organization, but a part of me knew that he simply couldn’t bear to watch me exist like this. So, when the letter inviting me for tea had arrived, months after I had begun my solitude, the only emotion I felt was relief. Sitting in the Baudelaire gardens with Beatrice, sipping from her untrustworthy selection of teas, this was normal, this was comforting. I figured that I deserved at least that. 

“You’ve barely touched your tea.” Beatrice’s concerned voice broke through my thoughts and made me start, my teaspoon hitting the side of the cup with a clang. She was peering at me, her eyebrows raised slightly, a gentle smile gracing her lips. 

I exhaled, looking back down at the cup, before shrugging. “Sorry, B, I…” I sighed, before looking back up at her, giving her a small smile, and lifting the cup to my lips to take a small sip, forcing myself not to wince as the stale taste overcame my mouth. “It’s great, thank you.” 

Beatrice raised an eyebrow, her smile not moving, and I knew that she wasn’t fooled by my performance at all, but she didn’t say anything. “I’m glad you came.” She said softly, reaching for her own cup (which was filled with some raspberry and blackcurrant fruit tea monstrosity, but I hadn’t commented on it), and taking a sip. “I’m sorry that I didn’t reach out sooner, but… to be honest, I didn’t know how much longer you’d need.” 

Her eyes gazed straight at me, and I looked down at the napkin that lay across my lap, my own eyes running over every inch of it, as if I were fascinated by its intricate lace handiwork. Beatrice often had a propensity to stare at whoever she was talking to, as if examining them for every detail she could garner. Lemony always used to stare back, but I never could. Her eyes, though breathtaking, were piercing, and I often felt very exposed when she would lock them onto me, as if she could read every secret buried in the crevices of my mind. 

“No, it’s alright.” I stuttered, my eyes still lowered. “I wasn’t really ready to speak to anyone. Not even Jacques.” There was a moment of silence, and I was grateful to sit in it for a moment. 

“How are you, Kit?” 

The question came as a surprise to me, and I looked back up at Beatrice, relieved to see that her gaze had softened slightly, her face kind. I twisted the napkin in my lap, shrugging a shoulder. “I’m better than I was.” I replied. “Everything just feels… bigger. Without him.” 

And this was true. After our recruitment, Jacques had pulled away from me, the first of many times that he would, and I had suffered from acute loneliness and fear during our first few nights in the Mortmain Mountains. Lemony had been a baby at the time, not even able to speak in full sentences, and it quickly became my purpose to care for him in every way that our late parents couldn’t anymore. While Jacques often disappeared, quickly burying himself in anything the organization presented to him, Lemony and I weathered the initial storm together. Many nights were spent lying together on the floor of our bedroom, gazing out at the snow-capped peaks as moonlight streamed in through the window onto our faces. My hand would rest on his cheek, his head on my shoulder, and it made this vast and looming world feel a little bit smaller, warmer and safer, if just for a moment. 

As the years went on and as we both took our apprenticeships, the physical closeness of these moments weaned and stopped altogether, but the sense of safety from being near Lemony never ceased. As well as this, I never stopped caring for him, spending much of my time thinking of and worrying about his entanglements with enemies, newspapers and various love interests, constantly ready to intervene at a moment’s notice if he needed it. And now? Now I just remained, ready and desperate to be an older sister as I had once been, but without a younger brother to care for. It felt desolate at the best of times, and agonizing at the worst. 

Beatrice took another sip of her tea, nodding contemplatively. I knew that, had I wanted to expand on that, she would’ve stayed silent to let me, but I didn’t need to. She knew what I meant. Swallowing, she picked up a plate of cookies to offer to me and I took one, perching it on the edge of my saucer with absolutely no intention of taking a bite. 

“I loved your brother.” She said softly, giving me a small, sad smile. “A lot. I only ended the engagement because…” She trailed off, sighing and rubbing her forehead. “It was complicated. But I loved him.” 

I nodded in response, but her words were something of a dart in my side. I believed that she loved Lemony, of course, but I couldn’t shed the memory of seeing him on the night that a large package had arrived from him in the mail, his eyes red and stained with tears, his hair dishevelled, his heart so clearly broken. The package had been from Beatrice, although I’m still not sure what it had contained, as it had vanished with Lemony. Despite knowing that she had her reasons, and how it had seemed that Lemony held no ill will towards her beyond simple heartbreak, it was still difficult to take her words at face value. But her words were intended to comfort me, so I returned her smile and gave a nod. “I know.” I responded. “He loved you too.” 

She chewed on her lip for a moment, before a crease formed in between her eyes. “I have something to tell you.” 

My apprehension grew again. It had something to do with the organisation, certainly, and although I had performed the odd task to help my associates, the grief over Lemony’s death had prevented me from any larger missions, and I had been fine with that for some time. As much as I was loyal to VFD, I couldn’t comprehend putting myself into any sort of stressful situation beyond cracking a code or repairing a spyglass. But, I also couldn’t ignore the way my curiosity piqued, and I raised an eyebrow at Beatrice. “What is it?”

She took a deep breath, her eyes wide, and her voice dropped to a volume inaudible to anyone who wasn’t sat at this wrought iron garden table. “I have it.” 

I frowned, not following. “You have what?” 

Beatrice raised an eyebrow, her eyes locked onto mine. “I have the vessel for-” 

A gasp escaped my lips and her mouth snapped shut, her eyes darting around in case any unsavoury presence was lurking in the sprawling gardens behind the Baudelaire mansion. Slowly, she returned her gaze to me and nodded, her lips pursed. “It’s hidden inside the library.” She replied, her voice hushed. 

I stared at her, mouth agape. “How did you get it?” 

“Well... Lemony had it. He stole it from Esmé a few days after La Forza Del Destino. He hid it in a secure location in the centre of town when the fires started up, he was worried that the Snicket mansion would be targeted by anybody vengeful enough. I went to retrieve it a couple of months ago.” 

I exhaled slowly, trying to process everything she had just said. I didn’t know that Lemony had the sugar bowl. I didn’t know that he had stolen it, or hidden it, or that Beatrice had rescued it. The implications of this went far beyond any of us; I had been labouring under the assumption that Esmé was still in possession of the impossibly valuable object. I glanced anxiously at the window that I knew looked into the Baudelaire library. Knowing that the sugar bowl was in there put me on edge and filled me with a sense of awe. 

“What are you going to do with it?” 

Beatrice pursed her lips, following my eyes to look at her library as well. “Store it. Protect it.” She said simply, and my head snapped back to her. 

“Not here.” I replied incredulously. “Beatrice, that’s so dangerous. If anyone on the firestarting side of schism finds out that you have the sugar bowl here, your home will go up in flames.” I kept my voice steady, but I couldn’t ignore the way panic washed over my body. I couldn’t lose anyone else, especially not Beatrice. 

She watched me for a moment, before clearing her throat. “That’s… that’s another thing I wanted to discuss with you, actually.” She wrung her hands in her lap. “I’m going away. We’ve found a tropical island for the organisation to use. I’m creating a refuge for members there.” 

I stared at her, trying to come to terms with what she had said. It was selfish, maybe, to hope that Beatrice would never leave The City, especially considering that I hadn’t seen her in months. But perhaps it was my mind still reeling from losing one important person in my life; it was a repugnant thought. I stuttered for a moment, before, finally clearing my throat. “When? For how long?” I demanded, trying my hardest to hide the despair in my voice. 

The sorry look on Beatrice’s face was even more salt to the wound, as well as her next words; “Indefinitely. We leave in a fortnight.” 

My eyebrow raised of its own accord. “We?” 

Beatrice paused for a moment, before nodding slowly. “Yes. Me… and Bertrand.” 

I exhaled, slumping back in my chair, defeat weighing on my chest. So, I would be losing both Beatrice and Bertrand in one fell swoop. Unlike how it had been with Beatrice, I  _ had  _ seen Bertrand in the seven months that had passed, many times. In the first few weeks after Lemony’s death, he had practically lived at the Snicket mansion, even spending several nights lying in bed and holding me as I wept until morning. He had been the only person who had regularly visited to ensure that I was eating enough or getting enough sleep, and would make frequent deliveries of books. This in particular had proved itself to be useful, as it took me a very long time to be able to re-enter the library at home. He had been the only consistent part of my life since Lemony’s death, and I couldn’t conceive of a life without him. 

“Oh.” Was all I could muster, unsure of how else to respond. 

Hesitating for a moment, Beatrice leaned forward. “Kit, I don’t know if it’s forever. I’m not selling this house, if that’s any consolation. But this is what the organisation needs. And… I chose Bertrand to come with me.” 

My head snapped up as she said Bertrand’s name. Her voice was laced with sympathy for me, but there was something else. A tenderness of sorts, one that was usually only reserved for romance. I knew what this meant, although I dreaded asking. 

“You… and Bertrand?” I breathed, feeling unresolved and unsettled as she reluctantly nodded. I don’t know why it surprised me. Bertrand’s feelings towards Beatrice had been anything but a secret for years now, and the only thing distracting Beatrice from Bertrand was Lemony. And it made sense that I hadn’t known; every time that I had inquired about Bertrand’s life and time spent away from me, he had evaded all questions. This had led to an argument one afternoon, which in turn had led to the only week in which Bertrand hadn’t made an appearance at the Snicket home, after which I had laid the matter to rest. 

“Kit, we fell in love months after Lemony’s death, I promise.” Beatrice murmured. “I could not have done that to Lemony, and neither of us were in any state to have begun our relationship after his death.” 

I watched her, my stomach churning, as I chewed on the inside of my cheek. In all honesty, aside from the residual sadness that came whenever Beatrice took a new romantic partner, I felt no ill will towards this. I believed her, and I understood, although I couldn’t imagine that Lemony would have been able to continue like her, had the roles been reversed. What I felt was more of an inner turmoil; too much was changing, and not for the better. I was losing two friends, their lives were intertwining, so soon after losing one of the most important people in my life. 

But I offered her a small smile. “I know. I’m happy for you. I know that Bertrand’s been in love with you for years, so I suppose it makes sense.” I chuckled slightly, despite the fact that it was absolutely the last thing I wanted to do. 

She rolled her eyes, laughing slightly in return. “Yes, I’ve been aware of that for quite some time.” 

“I’ll miss the two of you dreadfully.” I responded, and Beatrice took a deep breath, nodding. 

“Well… we do have an extra space on the boat. Bertrand and I could use your engineering expertise and, to be quite frank, we’d love having you there with us.” Beatrice’s eyes were hopeful. 

I stopped for a moment to think about the offer. Leaving would mean not losing my closest friends. It would mean being useful to the organisation, after months of minor input. It would mean a fresh start in a new land, far from firestarters, far from Olaf, far from memories of Lemony that seemed to fill every corner of the looming mansion that I lived in. A tropical island was hardly a harsh environment, and would probably even be a welcome change after countless winters passed. 

And yet, a nagging thought persisted in my mind; Jacques. He had seemed less affected by Lemony’s death but, unlike me, he very rarely allowed himself to externalise how he felt. He had buried himself in his volunteer work, which is what he had done when our parents had perished. Whenever I saw him, however, his disposition was normal, if not slightly uncomfortable due to my very external sadness. He had given me my space, brought food and supplies into the house, taken my hand in his while we stood graveside, listening to the rabbi speak. 

That made my mind up. I couldn’t leave him, and not for his benefit, but for mine. For my entire life, I had consistently chosen my brothers over anyone else, and that wouldn’t change now. I couldn’t allow myself to be separated from my twin, especially now that we were two instead of three. 

“Thank you.” I started, but shook my head. “I can’t. Jacques is still here, and…” I trailed off, giving an apologetic smile. “I’m sure I’ll visit the island eventually.” 

Beatrice smiled softly. “You’d better.” She replied, reaching forward and taking my hand in hers. 

I looked at our hands clasped together in front of me for a moment, trying to ignore the way the hairs on my arm stood up on end. This was the end of something, I knew that, and the beginning of something else. A life with fewer people present. A life of increased solitude. A temporary one, I hoped, but solitude regardless. And yet, this was the most hopeful I had felt in months. Of course, I still felt absolutely miserable, but less so than when I had first arrived at the Baudelaire mansion. 

That thought in my mind, I allowed myself a small smile, the first that I had given genuinely since Lemony’s death, and gently squeezed Beatrice’s hand; softly at first, and then decidedly, with love. 


	23. Package 2 - Handwritten Note to B., from K.

B, 

I spoke with B (the other one) this afternoon, and she told me of your plans. 

Come by and visit tomorrow. I have something I want to give you. 

-K 


	24. Package 3 - Letter from Cecil Spats, Trolley Driver

Dear Inquirer, 

I do hope that this is the correct address. Unfortunately, the address written on this package was quite stained with what appears to be purple paint and ash. I have done my best to discern what was written on the address label beneath the mess and transcribe it onto a fresh new label that I have attached to the parcel. 

Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Cecil Spats, I am one of three drivers who operate the trolley system in The City. Many people of all walks of life use our trolleys, including pastry chefs, financial advisors, and postal workers. I found this parcel tucked under one of the seats yesterday evening, and hoped that the financial advisor had left a box with a large sum of money, or that the pastry chef had left a delicious smelling cake that I wouldn’t be able to help but sniff. I carefully inspected it, as per the instructions given during the three hour training session I received at the beginning of my employment, and imagine my surprise when I only found a mess of papers and books in envelopes inside. 

I tried my best not to read them, I promise, however I couldn’t help but notice the name on many of these documents; a K. Snicket. I am quite a forgetful person, but this name rang a bell that I couldn’t turn off, and suddenly I remembered why. 

Just under a decade and four years ago, it was a quiet Sunday, and my trolley was empty. I collected a woman from the train station and travelled with her all the way to Briny Beach. She was tall and strikingly blonde, wearing a trim grey coat, with an air of importance, almost like royalty but not quite. She boarded without a word, left without a word, and said no words in-between. However, she left her satchel behind on the seat next to where she was sat. When I noticed, I inspected it of course, but could find no name other than the initial  _ R _ . 

The satchel seemed to contain a few documents and envelopes with books in them, many of them referencing this K. Snicket, and I sensed the importance of returning these items to this woman. Alas, upon visiting the hall of records, I could find no woman with a name beginning with R. whose picture or description matched that of the woman I saw that day. I’ve kept the satchel in the trolley with me since, in the hopes of seeing her again and being able to return her belongings, but I never saw her again. 

As it appears that all documents relating to K. Snicket are required by you, I will add what I have to the package and send it on its way. I do, however, ask that if you know who this R. is, please do alert her that I have been safeguarding her satchel for fifteen years and that it is ready to collect at her earliest convenience. 

Regards, 

Cecil Spats


	25. Package 3 - Letters Between B. and K.

Dear K, 

I hope that this letter finds you safely. We’ve used an old bottle that used to hold the finest sauvignon blanc, but the label has now been peeled off and we will close it with the sturdiest wax we have, in the hopes that the paper inside survives the journey. 

The island continues to be miraculous, and Bertrand and I have created a wonderful life for ourselves. We have built a water filtration system which has made survival much easier, and constructed small, quite luxurious bungalows for ourselves, and anyone else who may wish to find refuge on the island. Our library is becoming quite extensive, and I am sure that I will miss every book dearly when we leave someday. 

However, I’m not writing to impart news about the island, as it’s the same news that I have passed on to you many times. I am writing with much more joyful news, some light in the hardships and heartbreaks that we have faced; Bertrand and I are expecting our first child. 

It is still the beginning of the pregnancy, and there isn’t much to report, I’m afraid, other than the fact that the nausea is unbearable at times, and that I have had the desire to eat nothing other than strawberry ice cream or truffles for weeks now. I believe that I have another six more months until I can meet my child, and I hope to raise them on this island. 

I also wanted to tell you, Kit, that if the child is a boy, we want to name him after your dear departed brother; Lemony. I know that you miss him terribly, and I do as well, and it is a tradition in our family to name children after noble people who have died; I believe that your family has the same tradition. 

We haven’t decided on what to call the child should they be born a girl, but I will impart this information onto you as soon as it is decided. 

I wish that I could be sharing this time with you, and with all of our other friends, but duty requires me to be apart from you. I hope that we will be able to be reunited soon, hopefully in time for you to hold our child. 

I miss you dearly and love you more. 

\- B

* * *

K- 

I had only just thrown the sauvignon blanc bottle off the rocks and into the ocean when Bertrand and I had a conversation that necessitated another note from me to you, so I hope you accept this scrap piece of paper that Bertrand had in his pocket (there is a delicious recipe for pasta puttanesca on the back), stuffed into this empty bottle of cough syrup. 

If the baby is a girl, we shall name her Violet. 

\- B


	26. Package 3 - Poem on Crumpled Paper

_One step, two steps.  
_ The house is silent.   
_Three steps, four steps.  
_ Not a sound can be heard.   
_Five steps, six steps.  
_ It can feel somewhat violent,   
_Seven steps, eight steps.  
_ To go so long, not hearing a word. 

_One step, two steps.  
_ Jacques isn’t home.   
_Three steps, four steps.  
_ He hasn’t been for days.   
_Five steps, six steps.  
_ He’s out with Jerome.   
_Seven steps, eight steps.  
_ In a mad lovesick craze. 

_One step, two steps.  
_ Olaf’s play premiered last night.   
_Three steps, four steps.  
_ I read the mediocre reviews.   
_Five steps, six steps.  
_ He stopped the play to start a fight.   
_Seven steps, eight steps.  
_ Blinded by hubris, but that’s not news. 

_One step, two steps.  
_ The Denouements are in a haze.   
_Three steps, four steps,  
_ Frank’s working himself thin.   
_Five steps, six steps.  
_ Ernest isn’t himself these days.   
_Seven steps, eight steps.  
_ He’s always been the troubled twin.

_One step, two steps.  
_ I sat in Lemony’s room today.   
_Three steps, four steps.  
_ It was so eerie and still.   
_Five steps, six steps.  
_ I wanted to speak, but didn’t know what to say.   
_Seven steps, eight steps.  
_ He wasn’t there, and I felt no chill. 

_One step, two steps.  
_ I should be cracking a code.   
_Three steps, four steps.  
_ It’s only Sebald, it isn’t too hard.   
_Five steps, six steps.  
_ Yet my soul feels about to implode.   
_Seven steps, eight steps.  
_ My mind is tired, pained and scarred. 

_One step, two steps.  
_ Instead I’m pacing.   
_Three steps, four steps.  
_ Up and down my room.   
_Five steps, six steps.  
_ My mind is quiet, hardly racing.   
_Seven steps, eight steps.  
_ As if it were a corpse, lost in a tomb.


	27. Package 3 - Letter from R., to K.

Dear K., 

There’s no question about it, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll expect you on the four o’clock train tomorrow, and you may stay as long as you wish. 

H. has sent me blueprints to look over and give notes on, for a self-sustaining hot air mobile home, and I could certainly use your engineering expertise before I send back my suggestions. 

Do bring that blue dress you know I’m so fond of. The roses have bloomed in the garden and I’ll want to gaze at you sitting in front of them in it. 

I can’t wait to see you. 

Love, 

\- R. 


	28. Package 3 - Commonplace Book Entry - Winnipeg

It was early spring, and the breeze blew over the balcony with a soft hint of freshly bloomed blossoms from the peach grove below. The breeze also brought with it a hint of iciness, and I felt a chill run down my spine, slightly regretting making this midnight exit into the night wearing only my silk slip, but not mustering any energy or will to return inside for a coat. 

Jacquelyn’s estate sat on the outskirts of Winnipeg, out of the way of any city noise or busyness. Although not quite a palace, it would be farcical to call her home a mansion, as if the large houses we inhabited in The City could be in any way rivaled by the sprawling grounds and grey stone that composed the cathedral I was sat in. In the distance, I could just about make out the lake that stood on the edge of the property, the light of the moon glittering on the shimmering surface of the black water, and I longed a cup of tea to sip as I sat here and watched it. 

Visiting the duchess’ home had been the right thing to do. I’d spent too long wandering around the city, trying to counteract the loneliness that had come with Beatrice and Bertrand’s departure. Their letter had evoked mixed feelings within me; on the one hand, a child on the way was miraculous, one light in the darkness that had seemed to plague both the Snickets and the Baudelaires since that night at the opera. On the other hand, their happiness and prosperity on the island indicated that they wouldn’t be returning soon. On top of that, Jacques had recently taken up with a wiry, very nervous looking man named Jerome, whom Beatrice had been friends with. I had only met Jerome in passing, never having had the chance to become properly acquainted with the man, and yet I remained of the opinion that he was thoroughly unworthy of Jacques’s affections. This, however, hadn’t deterred my twin, and whenever he wasn’t on mission, he was at 667 Dark Avenue. I wouldn’t begrudge my brother of a relationship, of course, but it did mean that most evenings were spent eating dinner and reading in absolute solitude. 

And then, of course, there was Lemony. It had been over a year since his death and although the initial shock and pain had numbed slightly, what had taken its place was a longing so severe that it engulfed me. All I had wanted in these past few months was to sit with him over a steaming pot of whatever herbal tea he would request and talk, as we used to. I would tell him about how much I missed Beatrice, a sentiment that he would surely understand. I’d detail my anxieties regarding Olaf’s increasingly alarming theatrical productions, rashes of violence, and group of followers seeming to pose as some sort of acting troupe. I’d disclose how dearly I missed our parents some nights, and how I wished he’d known them better before they perished. 

But he was gone, and it was time for me to accept that. I had spent far too long imagining various scenarios in which I would see my younger brother again, which wasn’t helped by the vague and mysterious circumstances surrounding his death. I’d laid awake countless nights wishing that the news of his death had been false, that he was alive and well somewhere, and that the wooden coffin we had lowered into the ground had been empty. But I knew it was futile. It had been over a year. If, by any miracle, he were alive, surely he would have come home by now. 

I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes to will the thoughts from my head. I had to heal from the events of the past year and a half, as I had healed from all other misfortunes that had befallen me throughout my lifetime. Loss was a fact of life in VFD, and I had lost many great people, either to esoteric reasons, or the dark grip of death. My mind flickered briefly to a petite feminine face I had known once, a face framed by striking black hair, and I shook my head again. Now was not the time to think about her. There was never a time to think about her. 

“You’re going to catch your death.” A low, sultry voice spoke from behind me and I started slightly, turning my head to see Jacquelyn step out of the bedroom and onto the balcony. She was also wearing a slip, hers being a deep green as opposed to my pale blue one, with a white fur coat sheltering her from the night chill. 

I gave her a half-hearted smile, shrugging a shoulder. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” I replied, and she rolled her eyes at me. Dry, morose humour was something I usually reserved for Jacquelyn, as she was one of the few people who I knew would let it be. 

“Here.” She said, producing a cream knitted blanket from under her coat and holding it out to me. Before I could take it, however, she shook it out and draped it over my shoulders, her hands gently rubbing my back as she came to sit next to me on the cushioned loveseat. 

“Thank you.” I responded, pulling it around myself. It was luxurious, as was everything else in the duchy of Winnipeg, and warmed me instantly. 

Jacquelyn glanced over at me, a concerned look on her face. “This is the fourth night in the row you haven’t been able to sleep.” She commented, and I turned my head to meet her eyes. They were striking, as always, framed by heavy-set eyebrows and her gorgeous blonde hair. Her lips aided in the illusion, constantly stained red, as if she had enchanted them to be permanently scarlet. It would be intimidating, had I not grown up around it. 

I sighed, bringing my feet up onto the bench and tucking my knees under my chin. “I feel restless.” I responded. “I felt restless in The City as well, but I suppose there’s just more time to think about it here.” 

A cheeky grin spread across her face, and I guessed her words before she spoke them; “If you were restless, you probably shouldn’t have gotten out of bed.” Her voice was teasing, and I chuckled, rolling my eyes playfully. 

“You gave me plenty of unrest earlier, don’t you worry.” I turned my head back to stare out at the vast darkness beyond the balcony. We were silent for a moment, before I felt a hand on my back. 

“Kit, you’ll have to go back eventually.” She murmured, rubbing gently in circles. “I know it’s hard, but you’re of no use here. They’ll need you back in The City fairly soon.” 

I exhaled sharply at that, bringing a hand up to rub my face. Ah, yes,  _ they _ .  _ They _ , that faceless, nameless entity that governed the lives of everyone inside the organisation.  _ They _ , who nobody truly knew, but whose will would be dictated by word of mouth, and carried out no matter what. I didn’t know who  _ they  _ were, but it didn’t matter.  _ They  _ were the most important people in my life, and I was never to forget that. 

“I know.” I replied to Jacquelyn, relaxing slightly under her touch on my back. “I’m just…” I trailed off. 

“Lonely.” Jacquelyn finished for me, and I turned to look at her. She was gazing at me with a dreamy half-smile. “I know what that’s like.” 

I regarded her for a moment, knowing that her words were true. She had told me time and time again that she longed to be able to spend all her time in The City, near more of her associates. But wishing for that was as futile as me wishing to stay in the duchy. Jacquelyn had inherited her position from her mother, the former Duchess of Winnipeg, and that bound her to it, regardless of how she felt. Inherited positions within VFD was something she and I had in common. Jacques and I were told as teenagers that we had been recruited specifically to fulfill the roles that our parents had been charged with when they were recruited; my brother taking over my mother’s espionage and me being taught physics and mechanics to complete the many engineering jobs my father had left behind. It had been implied that Lemony had been recruited as a spare, with no direction he was to be led in, and it was clear that this was the stance that many older members of VFD had taken in regards to Lemony. This made it nearly impossible to forge one’s own path in the organisation; like every other aspect of our life, it was in the hands of those who had come before us. 

“I never see my brother. He’s… on another planet. In love.” I scoffed; as happy as I was that Jacques had somebody at last, the concept of him being in love would always be a foreign one. “And Lemony…” I trailed off, shaking my head. “Well, you know. And it’s odd being in The City, around all that noise and hustle and bustle and… to feel so alone. At least here it’s quiet.” 

Jacquelyn exhaled, and I could see the slight outline of her breath in the dark, icy air. “Sometimes it’s too quiet.” She said softly, her low voice forlorn. 

I sighed, watching it leave my lips in a cloud. “I miss Beatrice and Bertrand. Well, the Baudelaires, as I suppose they’re called now.” The plurality of that name didn’t leave my mouth easily. Beatrice Baudelaire had always been so singular. Bertrand taking her name had been so obvious, but the fact of their marriage was still strange to me, especially since I had always imagined that I would be at his future wedding. 

She laughed out loud. “That’s going to take some getting used to. ‘Bertrand Baudelaire’.” 

I paused, watching her smile quickly fall as she glanced down at her folded hands, and knew instantly why. “Are you alright with it?” I softly asked, and she rolled her eyes. 

“Of course I am. Life goes on.” Ah, yes, there it was. Jacquelyn’s mind-over-matter attitude. It had served her well in years passed, helping her recover quickly from her mother’s death, her partner’s disappearance and the loss of several associates. But I understood the pain below the cool exterior; it was pain I had felt myself. Jacquelyn had come closer to having the full extent of her feelings for Beatrice reciprocated than I ever had, and the two had spent a summer many years ago in each other’s arms, only for Beatrice to put an end to the relationship when she had to return to The City in the autumn. The two had remained cordial, but the friendship hadn’t survived the way mine and Beatrice’s had, and it was still a source of melancholy for the young duchess. 

“It certainly does.” Was all I responded with. A moment of silence passed, and I leaned back in the loveseat and watched Jacquelyn’s fingers dance gracefully on my silk-covered thigh. I knew that this act wasn’t intended to be suggestive or sensual, and that was the best part; it was intimate, pure and simple. It was to touch, and be touched, in a life where that was never guaranteed. Slowly, I snaked a hand down to rest on top of hers, curling my fingers into her palm. She accepted the gesture readily, leaning her head against mine. 

“If only you and I could get married.” She mused after a moment of silence, and I burst out in laughter. “No, I’m serious, then we could split our time between The City and here, and the problem of loneliness would be solved.” She continued, but I continued to chuckle. 

“We would be miserable.” I replied, bringing her arm nearer to tuck mine into it. “We’re both too headstrong and have terrible tempers, we’d fight all the time. We bicker enough now as it is.” 

Jacquelyn hummed, crossing her legs. “I suppose you’re right. Not to mention that we fundamentally disagree on all topics from food, to literature, to travel.” 

I nodded, running my thumb over the back of her hand. “And I loathe all things to do with royalty or nobility. I’d hate being a duchess. All of the added responsibility, the added danger. You can’t even use your own initial in correspondence,  _ R _ .” 

She pulled her head away, smirking as she glanced over to me. “And we’re both far too busy falling in love with other people to ever fall in love with each other.” 

Her smirk dropped into a small bittersweet smile, and I couldn’t help mirroring it. Jacquelyn and I had had this sort of relationship since we were teenagers, one where we found comfort, intimacy and closeness in each other, in the way one would usually find in a romantic partner. However, when it came to love, it was utterly different. I loved her, of course, but as a dear friend, much as I loved Monty or Bertrand. It wasn’t comparable to how I loved Beatrice, or even how I had loved Olaf. All the talk of relations or marriage in the world wouldn’t change that. 

“In another life, perhaps.” I whispered 

She watched me for a moment before letting go of my hand to reach up and gently stroke my cheek. Slowly, she leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against my lips, my eyes fluttering shut as she did so. It was brief and light, but the feeling of it was soothing and wonderful, and I realised how much I had missed being touched like this in the past year. 

She pulled away, keeping her face millimetres from mine, and I smiled softly at the closeness. It was as if she knew what it meant to me. In fact, I knew that she knew what it meant to me. It meant the same to her. 

“Come to bed.” She murmured, and I inhaled deeply, before nodding. Taking that signal, she slowly stood up, starting to walk backwards into the house, her hand trailing down to grasp mine again. I was gently pulled to my feet, following her out of the night air. 

Without a word, she led me into her bedroom, my current refuge, and into her arms, my latest escape. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first fic I've posted in a really long time, and it's going to be long and very angsty and so I hope you stick around while I churn it out! Please leave a review and let me know what you thought!


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